‘My dear . . .’ Janet began, then put her fingers to her forehead. ‘Sorry, what is this one’s name? I find it hard to keep up.’

Rivelli was trying to shrink into the background, but such was the press of onlookers behind him that he was obliged to make the introductions.

‘Victoria Crabtree,’ he said, signalling to his mistress with blazing eyes.

‘Of course. How could I forget that name. Crab. Tree.’

‘And this,’ said Victoria, bringing Andy forward, ‘is Andy Cissé, the designer’s father.’ Hands were shaken. ‘And the husband of a very famous divorce lawyer.’ Hands were dropped. ‘But I expect you know all about that, don’t you, Massimo? I think you’ve met Christine Fairbrother.’

‘I have . . .’

‘Well good for you. Nothing like being prepared. Is there, Janet?’

Janet took a sip of wine. She was not a drinker, but the sheer audacity of the woman unnerved her. ‘If I were you, Miss Crabtree, I would watch my tongue.’

Victoria laughed far too loud, gesticulating with her empty glass. ‘Is that a warning? Oooh! Look at me shaking.’

‘Victoria, for God’s sake.’ Rivelli’s face was darkening, but Victoria was high on cocaine and combat.

‘Come on,’ said Andy, trying to drag her away – but Victoria’s feet were welded to the floor.

‘No, really,’ said Victoria, ‘it’s good to see what I’m up against. Poor Massimo. I see what you mean.’ She put so much intimacy into that line, almost a caress . . . ‘No wonder you can’t bear to go home.’

‘Victoria, this is not helping.’

‘Massimo.’ Janet turned her back on Victoria. ‘We are leaving.’

‘No wonder it’s me you take on holiday, not her.’ Victoria knew she was hurting herself more than anyone, but she could not stop. It felt so good, so liberating, like skydiving without a parachute – fun at first.

‘No wonder he hasn’t fucked you for four years.’

The words were out. Janet cringed beneath the blow. Massimo looked as if it was only by extreme self control that he refrained from socking Victoria on the jaw.

Janet turned, stepped into spilt champagne, wobbled dangerously – Victoria laughed – and righted herself.

‘Listen to me, you cheap little whore.’

‘Cheap! How dare you!’

‘When I have finished with Massimo . . .’

‘You finished with him ten years ago, darling.’

‘There will be nothing left of him but the clothes he stands up in.’

‘Oh, Janet, don’t you know? Massimo doesn’t need clothes when he’s with me.’

Janet drew breath, thought better of it, slammed her drink down on the catwalk, snapping the stem of the glass, and walked away with as much dignity as a wounded wife could muster. The crowd parted to let her through. Around Victoria, a cordon sanitaire had been established. No one would stand within three feet of her. Andy slipped away. Rivelli backed into the shadows. She was left alone, positioned under a yellow light that made her look infectious.