‘Okay. But mark my words, that old bag Fiona Walker will be all sweetness and light next time we see her. Just watch the orders rolling in!’

‘Do you really think a deal with Rivelli means that much?’

‘You bet it does,’ said Will. ‘In this business, it’s not just about making nice dresses. It’s about having the right players on your team. We’ve got Walker Parker, and we’ve got Rivelli. Couldn’t be better. Aren’t I clever? I feel a bit like Madonna, surrounding myself with talent.’

‘And there the resemblance ends.’

‘So now the buyers at the shops know we’re in the big league, they’ll start ordering like mad. Walker Parker will send all the orders on to Rivelli, who will make up the clothes and send them out to the shops, and collect the money and pay it back to us, minus their commission, of course. And then we pay Walker Parker their commission . . .’

‘I hope there’s enough left for us. I’m rather bored of baked beans.’

‘Trust me,’ said Will. ‘We’ve made it. You laid the golden egg, Princess.’

‘And we do trust him, don’t we?’

‘Rivelli? Sure. As much as we trust anyone in this business.’

‘Which is about as far as I can throw him.’

‘Leave all that to me,’ said Will. ‘You do your job, and I’ll do mine.’

‘Absolutely not. We are finished.’

‘And how has Miss Crabtree taken it?’

‘Ah . . .’

‘And you have told her in no uncertain terms?’

‘Well . . .’ Rivelli waggled his hand. ‘Not in so many words.’

‘Right.’ Christine gathered up her papers, tapped them into a neat pile and loaded her briefcase. ‘In that case, Mr Rivelli, I am going to assign you a piece of homework before our next meeting. I expect you can guess what it is.’

‘I must tell Victoria that it is over.’

‘Precisely. And, I might add, in terms that admit of absolutely no misinterpretation. This is not a time for ambiguity.’

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Christine had seen very little of her daughter since London Fashion Week. She visited her in hospital, where she was greeted with sulks and grunts and a face turned to the wall; it reminded Christine of when Isabelle was six, and hadn’t been bought a pony for her birthday. Will relayed messages with his usual good cheer: your mother wants to know how you’re feeling, she says she’s feeling all right, your mother says she’ll come back tomorrow, she says not to bother. Christine liked Will. He winked and sighed at her daughter’s bad manners. It was good to know he was beside her – boyfriend or not.

But too many weeks had passed without civilised mother – daughter interaction, and so she invited Isabelle for Sunday lunch, ‘and bring a friend’, she said, hoping that would mean Will, to keep the peace.