The photographer’s studio was huge, the size of two tennis courts, in what had once been a warehouse by the Regent’s Canal just north of Kings Cross station. One entire wall had been knocked out and replaced with glass, to afford impressive views of the water. The opposite wall was white-painted brickwork, exposed pipes and old-fashioned radiators, handy for that sought-after post-industrial look with which the photographer had made his name. Today it looked as if a Jane Austen adaptation had been airlifted in – a ballroom’s-worth of Regency furniture was lined up along the floor, variously draped with ethnic throws and punctuated by potted parlour palms. The colour story was cream and gold – devised, said Cherry, to make Cissé look good. ‘Maya’s stuff is going to look washed out against that background,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but if she uses those sludgy colours for everything, it really isn’t my fault.’

The third designer was a nervous young lad from Liverpool with a penchant for ‘street styles’, ripped seams, mohair sweaters and appliqued bits and pieces that might have come from his nan’s dressing table. The clothes looked good on him – he was so beautiful that anything would have. On the models they looked awkward, ‘but we can stick them at the back,’ said Cherry, with embarrassing clarity. The Liverpudlian fashion prodigy scuttled away with flaming cheeks and wet eyes. Will followed him with words of comfort.

They had been there since eight o’clock in the morning waiting for something to happen, and by noon Isabelle was wondering why she had been asked along at all. If she went anywhere near the models she was shooed away by Cherry or one of her assistants. When she suggested she might iron something, they looked at her as if she was mad, as if the Queen had suggested she’d serve drinks at a Royal Garden Party. Her work was done; now, the stylist took over. It was just as well Isabelle concentrated on tailoring; there wasn’t much you could do to ‘style’ a Cissé dress. It fitted where it touched, and could only fall in the right way. She saw Maya Rodean’s collection being pulled unceremoniously off shoulders, hitched up over knees, accessorised with huge pieces of jewellery that completely obscured the line. Isabelle’s designs went unadorned.

A pudgy young woman with lopsided glasses and dirty hair held back with a scrunchie was running around scribbling in a spiral-bound notebook, and eventually made her way to Isabelle, who thought she was taking orders for coffee and was on the point of saying ‘Black, please, no sugar.’

‘Hi, Isabelle, right? I’m Ginny Pagett, I’m, like, doing the words.’

‘Oh,’ said Isabelle, composing her face into a welcoming smile, ‘right, pleased to meet you. What can I tell you?’

‘What sort of inspires your designs?’