‘Interesting strategy,’ Christine said to John.

‘I don’t think she’s done herself any favours.’

‘No. I would describe it as a sort of suicide bombing.’

‘I suspect that I may be briefing you in Rivelli v Rivelli after all.’

‘Oh, goodie,’ said Christine, who could only say such things to John. ‘That’s just what I need. Lots of reporting, lots of profile, and lots of lovely money.’

‘Handy, just now?’

‘Yes, but don’t breathe a word,’ said Christine. ‘I’m going for silk.’

‘Clever girl,’ said John. ‘And about time, too.’

‘What do you reckon? Is this the one?’

‘Oh, yes. I think Miss Victoria Crabtree has just done you an immense favour. She may have hurt herself, and she may have undermined our chances of actually winning, but if you were looking for a high-profile case to leverage your application, you couldn’t have picked better.’

‘And on that note,’ said Christine, ‘I feel as if I have the confidence to face my super-successful daughter. Shall we go and find her, Uncle John?’

But Isabelle was not so easy to find. After being interviewed and photographed by Vogue, and patted on the back by the assembled guests, she felt desperately tired and emotional, and wanted nothing more than to sleep. This, of course, would not do at one’s own London Fashion Week debut, and so she repaired to the lavatory to powder her nose.

Twenty minutes later, she had not come out.

Will was worried; Isabelle had been distant and disjointed all day, which could be explained by preshow nerves, but didn’t look good. He’d interpreted for the Vogue reporter, managing to make Isabelle’s non sequiturs sound charming and insightful – but he should not have to do this. If Isabelle was going to do an Amy Winehouse, he would have to think very seriously about their future. Perhaps it was his fault – perhaps he’d led her on, let her down, hurt her. Was she really that fragile? She was no longer the bubbly, energetic, curvaceous girl he’d known and loved at St Martins. She was becoming ‘difficult’ – and, although she had the talent to back it up, it was not a combination that interested him.

Will told everyone that Isabelle was backstage, packing up, ‘you know what a perfectionist she is,’ he lied, thinking of the chaos of the studio. Christine waited and waited – surely Isabelle was not avoiding her own mother? – but finally decided to leave when she saw Victoria getting Andy in her clutches once again. She did not like the woman from the first glance, and the scene with Janet Rivelli had done nothing to endear her, whatever the professional advantages.

And so Christine left without being able to congratulate Isabelle. ‘I hope she saw me in the audience,’ she said to John, as he handed her into a taxi. ‘I mean, she does know I was here, doesn’t she?’