‘Yes.’ He drank. ‘It has been a lot of stress . . . Staying away from home, from my boy.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Now, I am ready. I will remember my manners. Please, Miss Fairbrother, ask your questions and I will answer like a good boy.’

‘There is only one question.’ She held up a four-page document. ‘Is this schedule of assets true and accurate?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Thank you, Mr Rivelli.’ She put the document away in a buff folder. ‘Now, I think, we can get on with the business of winning.’

The Hoxton studio, which looked so big when they first saw it last summer, was starting to feel small. There were too many clothes hanging on too many racks, too many samples waiting to be sent out to shoots, to PRs, to buyers. Swatches were piling up in corners like glamorous snowdrifts, and every flat surface was covered in magazines and books. Will kept one tiny corner tidy, a table and a filing cabinet and a phone, and tried to stop important paperwork from being sucked into the surrounding chaos, whence it would never return. And in the middle of it all was the cutting table, piled high with fabric, with Isabelle perched at one end, bent over a sketch book, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she scribbled down notes and drawings, frowning in concentration.

‘You’ll need Botox if you carry on like that, Princess,’ said Will, grabbing her shoulders and starting to massage.

She swatted his hands away. ‘And you’ll need a stretcher if you carry on like that. Leave me alone.’

‘It’s nearly two o’clock.’

‘I know! I know! They can wait!’

‘No they can’t. This isn’t some silly bloody journalist, you know. This is Dan and Fiona. Your selling agents.’

‘Don’t nag me!’ She sounded cross, but she put her pencil down and closed the sketch book. ‘You know I hate to be disturbed when I’m working.’

‘I told you two hours ago that they were coming in.’

‘Right.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s two. Where are they? Late?’

The buzzer went.

‘No, as a matter of fact,’ said Will, ‘they’re on time.’ Isabelle had been tetchy of late – but at least she was clean and sober, and eating properly, if he reminded her.

‘Darling,’ said Fiona Walker, all warmth and smiles now that she could see the figures mounting up in the sales column, ‘how are you?’

‘Never better,’ said Will. ‘Would you like a – ’

‘Isabelle!’ Fiona stood, her arms outstretched. ‘You look fantastic.’

And you still look like you shop at Asda, thought Isabelle, but accepted the embrace. ‘Where’s Dan? Is he coming?’

‘Oh,’ said Fiona, an irritating twinkle in her eye, ‘he’s on his way, don’t you worry.’ Isabelle caught a glance between Fiona and Will, and hated the implication.