‘Great colours, great fabrics, and a desire to create dresses that modern women of all ages can wear without the fear that they’re going to look like frumps or tarts.’

‘Why do you think you’ve been so sort of successful in so short a time?’

‘Because I’ve worked my bloody socks off.’ Isabelle had kicked the habit of self-deprecation along with the cocaine. ‘There are lots of people in this business with great ideas, but not that many who are willing to put in the hours.’

‘Are you talking about anyone in particular?’ asked Ginny, with a glint in her eye.

‘Of course not. I just mean that if you haven’t got the patience and dedication to learn about tailoring yourself, you can’t really expect the clothes that you create to stand out.’

Her words were being taken down like holy writ.

‘And finally, where do you see Cissé in like a year from now?’

‘My business partner says we’ll be on the red carpet at the Oscars.’

The journalist scuttled away, her lips moving as she read over her notes. God knows what she’ ll make of that, thought Isabelle. She probably thinks I was being bitchy about Maya Rodean. And I probably was.

The models issued from the dressing room en masse, like a football team coming out of the tunnel. They were herded and prodded into place.

‘Not there!’ screamed Cherry. ‘You’ll have the gutter running right between your legs!’

One piece of furniture, just right of centre, remained unoccupied, a beautiful cream velvet chaise longue, studded with worn brass upholstery nails, the elaborate wooden scrolling under the headrest a deep rich brown, almost black. It was set a good two feet forward from the rest of the line.

‘Everyone ready?’ shrieked Cherry, taking her place at the photographer’s elbow. ‘Right, bring her on.’

Two assistants held the doors, and into the studio floated Amelie Watts, a fragile porcelain doll draped in a Cissé creation so light it should have melted under the lights. Layers of chiffon parted like cobwebs to reveal a deep red floor-length sheath, above which Amelie’s perfect shoulders, long white neck and golden chignon rose with heartbreaking fragility.

‘And that,’ said Cherry Lucas, ‘is why we’re here. Let’s shoot.’

‘But Cherry,’ came a voice from the ranks, ‘Maya’s not arrived. We must wait for her.’

‘She’s four hours late. And besides,’ said Cherry, ‘I don’t think she needs to see this. It would be unkind.’