‘Just if we’re going to be running late, I’ve got stuff to do.’

‘Sorry . . .’ Dan bumbled through the door, dropping things, carrying a bunch of dark blue hyacinths, their thick white stems wrapped in tissue paper, tied with raffia. ‘These are for you.’ He handed them to Isabelle; cold water from the soggy stems ran down her arms.

‘Oh! Thank you!’ The scent of the flowers hit her, and she sneezed suddenly, and needed a tissue. Dan rummaged in his pockets, dropping more paper, finally found something crumpled but clean, and handed it to her.

‘Thanks.’ Isabelle had a good blow. ‘They’re beautiful. I love them.’

‘I thought they were like that dress . . . That blue one you showed . . .’ Dan was blushing furiously. ‘Well, I hoped you might like them.’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose, ran a hand over his bristly blond hair.

‘Well then,’ said Fiona, cocking an eyebrow, ‘shall we get down to business? I know how busy you both are.’

‘We’ve always got time for you,’ said Will. ‘Haven’t we, Isabelle?’

She stuck her tongue out at him, and busied herself with clearing space on the cutting table. Hundreds of pounds’ worth of silk slipped to the floor.

‘So,’ said Will, ‘what have you got for us?’

‘Nothing but good news,’ said Fiona. Ah, thought Will, what a difference six months make . . . ‘We’ve got Selfridges.’

‘Right.’

‘And we’ve got Harrods.’

‘Okay.’

‘And we’re ninety percent certain of Browns.’

‘Ninety percent?’

‘Well, their buyer’s been on holiday, and so we haven’t . . .’

‘Right,’ said Will, not waiting for excuses. ‘What about Milan? Paris? New York?’

‘We’re working on it. As I said at our last meeting, I’ll be taking samples out there next month . . .’

‘The thing is, Fiona,’ said Will, ‘we’ve had a direct approach from Saks Fifth Avenue as a result of the Vogue feature.’

‘It’s not even out yet.’

‘Which makes it all the more exciting. And so, obviously, we’re looking for the most advantageous deal possible.’

‘And that’s what we’ll get you, Will,’ said Fiona, who would have given a very different reply if she had not been so cravenly eager for Cissé’s business. Dan and Isabelle kept out of the discussion, avoiding each other’s eyes.

‘Good. Now, on to other matters.’ Will turned away from Fiona, as if she had outlived her usefulness. ‘Manufacturing.’

‘Yes,’ said Dan. ‘I’m glad you mentioned that. You do realise, don’t you, the volume that you’re going to have to turn out when these orders start rolling in?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Will.

‘So have you appointed a manufacturer yet?’

‘No.’

‘That’s . . . I mean, potentially, that’s a bit of a problem,’ said Dan, looking up at Isabelle, his brow furrowed. ‘These things can take a bit of time, and if you’re late with fulfilment . . .’