There had been a great deal of last minute discussion about who, exactly, Amelie Watts was going to model for – Cissé, or Maya Rodean, or both, but in the end the decision was made by Cherry Lucas, who was styling the ‘New Generation’ shoot for Vogue. Amelie would appear exclusively in Cissé. Amelie was made for Cissé, said Cherry, and Cissé for Amelie, who should never wear anything else. Maya Rodean could have her pick of the leftovers. It took a lot of flouncing, and several threats to boycott the shoot, before Maya saw sense.

‘She’s shitting herself,’ said Will. ‘She knows how bad she’s going to look next to you. I don’t know why she doesn’t just pull out of the whole thing and bugger off to Paris.’

‘Because it’s Vogue, dear. Even the Maya Rodeans of this world need Vogue.’

‘Perhaps this will take her down a peg or two. Bitch.’

‘Will,’ said Isabelle, whom the last few weeks had taught a short, sharp lesson in tolerance, ‘I think, under the circumstances, we can afford to be generous.’

Despite her dramatic departure from her own London Fashion Week debut in the back of an ambulance, two nights in hospital and a further week’s bed rest at home, Isabelle found herself, at the age of twenty-two and only six months out of college, the hottest story in the British fashion world, eagerly courted by stylists, editors and PRs desperate for her business. The morning after the show, Cherry Lucas had called Will, telling him that Cissé was her ‘one to watch’ for Vogue’s ‘New Generation’ feature, which she was styling. And while Cherry couldn’t exactly ignore Maya Rodean, who was already a fixture in the newspapers and designing her first collection for Versace, she implied that she was only there on sufferance. Any lingering resentment over Maya Rodean’s rapid rise, or her ‘theft’ of Amelie Watts at the St Martins graduation show, was swiftly disappearing.

It was one of those complicated shoots that involved ten models draped elegantly over antique furniture wearing creations by Cherry’s three favoured designers. Getting ten models, a small army of make-up artists, hairdressers and assistant stylists into the same studio at the same time was a logistical achievement not far short of building the Great Wall of China. Cherry Lucas, for all her cultivated wackiness, knew how to get things done. Even the photographer, a sexually predatory forty-something with ice blue eyes and a permanent tan, did as he was told – and so did his people, another battalion of assistants and runners. There was someone to do everything. You only had to look thirsty and someone was hovering with coffee.

Will’s eyes were all over the place.