‘Of course she does,’ said John, and they drove away.

Dan Parker stood around all night with an untouched drink in his hand, waiting to congratulate Isabelle, who, he figured, must surely pass within hailing distance at some point. While waiting, he had fended off eight offers of cocaine, five offers of dinner and two offers of blowjobs in the bogs, all of them from men. And, while Dan was of the ‘never say never’ persuasion, he had a definite preference for women, and one woman in particular – the one woman it seemed impossible to get within eight feet of.

This was a shame, because he had something to tell her. Two things, in fact, but London Fashion Week shows were no place to say ‘I love you’. But he did hope to make her happy by telling her that Walker Parker were fully committed to offering Cissé a very advantageous deal – and had already had expressions of interest from big stores in London and New York.

Instead, he had to make do with Will. Will was not immune to Dan Parker’s charms, and under different circumstances might have completed the hat trick of blowjob offers. But for now, things remained friendly and professional.

‘That’s fantastic news, Dan,’ said Will, putting an arm round his shoulders and being surprised at the firmness of the muscles. ‘We couldn’t have asked for a better end to the evening. Wait till I tell Isabelle.’

‘Where is Isabelle?’

‘Oh, you know. Backstage.’ He was sick of trotting out the same lie. Where the hell was Isabelle?

‘Is she okay?’

‘Course she is.’ Will cleared his throat. ‘She gets very nervous. She’s not used to all this. I think she’s probably hiding.’

‘That’s cool,’ said Dan. He says cool, thought Will. How uncool. ‘I know how she feels. I can’t stand these parties myself.’ He laughed, showing white, regular teeth.

Will almost said ‘Well, why don’t you let me help you relax?’, which often worked. Instead he said ‘Listen, Dan, I’d better go and check on Isabelle. Thanks for the good news. Can we have lunch next week?’

‘Course.’ Dan looked worried. ‘Look, give her my . . . love, right?’

He turned and left before Will could reply.

The party was over. The fashion pack was on its way to the next one. Backstage, the models were kissing each other, texting each other, trying to nick things.

Isabelle was not there.

Will felt a surge of panic. Maybe she’d just left . . . But of course that was nonsense. She wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.

He knew without thinking where to look. In the ladies’ loos, a few stragglers checked their look for the next party, sounds of sniffing came from behind locked doors, one couple was braced awkwardly against the hand dryer in deep congress. Nobody turned a hair when a man walked in. This was a fashion show, after all.