Le Gavroche? How obvious! ‘I told you . . .’

‘At eight o’clock. I will see you there.’

‘Mr Riv – ’ The line was dead.

‘Cheeky bastard,’ Christine said aloud to her reflection, and walked back to chambers in a fine foul mood. She hadn’t been to Le Gavroche for years, and wondered if they still did that divine lobster salad.

They opened the studio doors to celebrate the publication of Vogue, and invited everyone in Hoxton. It was like a St Martins reunion. Graduates recent and not so recent, tutors, heads of department, a smattering of current students, all the denizens of the studios and workshops in fashion’s square mile descended on Cissé to share in the glory. The bandwagon was rolling.

‘Knock knock,’ said Will, when the party was at its height, two hundred people crammed into the space.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Maya.’

Isabelle took her cue. ‘Maya who?’

‘Ah,’ said Will, ‘that’s show business.’

Maya Rodean was nowhere to be seen, having retreated to lick her wounds in Paris, where, it was said, relations with the house of Versace were not as cordial as they could be. The air was thick with Schadenfreude. People who would have sold their souls to be Maya’s friend at college, who had used desperate measures to crash her inner circle, were enjoying their moment of revenge.

‘Her drawing was always terrible. I mean, terrible. Like a five-year-old’s drawing of mummy.’

‘Well, I tried my best to teach her about pattern making, but you can tell by looking at her clothes that I was wasting my time.’

‘I heard that Versace rejected the whole of the spring/summer collection and told her to go back to the drawing board.’

‘I never saw Maya at a drawing board in my life.’

‘What’s that you’re wearing? Did you make it?’

‘It’s Matalan. Customised, you know.’

‘Of course!’

‘How long will it be,’ Isabelle whispered to Will, ‘before they’re picking over the corpse of Cissé?’

‘Oh, I think we’ll give them a run for their money. Why do you think they’re here?’

‘For the free booze, I assume.’

‘No. Because they want to be able to say to all their friends and colleagues and students “Oh, when I was at the Cissé party, Isabelle said to me . . .” You’ve done what they’re all desperate to do. They hate you for it, of course, but keep doing it and they’ll kiss your arse.’

‘What a lovely world we work in.’

‘Darling,’ said Will, ‘if you want lovely, you’re in the wrong job. C’est la mode!’

Copies of Vogue – they’d ordered a couple of bundles – were seized upon and scrutinised, torn, dog-eared and stolen. A couple of young fashion students, dressed, for reasons best known to themselves, in geisha drag, even asked Isabelle to sign the appropriate spread.