‘Isabelle?’ Will didn’t want to cause a fuss, but he was now seriously worried. Most of the cubicle doors were closed. ‘Are you in here?’

A toilet flushed, a door opened – but it was not her, just one of the models.

‘Have you seen Isabelle?’

The model shrugged, pulled out her mascara and went to the mirror.

‘Isabelle!’ More urgency in his voice now. Another door opened, and another. Never her.

He texted her, WHERE R U?, and listened for an answering beep. The reception here was bad, the noise levels high. He strained his ears. Was that . . . Was it? Or just another of Ben’s electro mash-ups?

Now there was only one door left. It was like a sinister game show. The last model left, and the loo was empty, but for Will and . . . whoever.

He checked that he was alone, and got down on his hands and knees.

The feet were bare, the jewelled sandals (Top Shop, customised) kicked aside, the chiffon of the skirt damp with water from the floor.

He reached in, grabbed her ankle, shook it.

No response. She felt cold.

‘Shit.’

There was a distinct smell of vomit. Will dialled 999.

Isabelle left her own show on a stretcher, under the searching eye of a flashing blue light.

Part Two - Spring/Summer

Part Two

Spring/Summer

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

She had not been invited to New York, and under normal circumstances would have welcomed Massimo’s absence to catch up on sleep and long, gossipy lunches with Adele. But these were not normal circumstances. After the fiasco of Fashion Week, Massimo had banished Victoria to the Siberia of his affections, further than ever from Italy – calls were unanswered and unreturned to the extent that she suspected that he’d changed his number just to avoid her. Dates that had been in her diary for weeks were cancelled by a call from Rivelli’s PA. The salary was still going into the bank, the credit cards still being paid off, but that was all. Rivelli had gone to ground as the divorce which Victoria had precipitated with such careful, strategic planning got underway.

Now was the time for her to stake a claim in Rivelli’s future. Desperate measures were called for.

And so Victoria sat on an American Airlines Boeing 777 – economy class, if you please – watching the Manhattan skyline wheeling beneath the wing tip. Her stomach turned over, and not just from fear of falling. Somewhere down there, somewhere in the middle of the island, making a deal over lunch, perhaps, or screwing one of his Stateside whores, was Massimo. She had to find him, woo him and win him back. This was not some crazy romantic gesture. Victoria was fighting for her future.