The party was held in an unpromising basement off Baker Street – hardly a fashionable address, thought Victoria, whose heart sank as she descended into the overdecorated hangar. Drinks were being served by waiters dressed in the new sports range – really horrible shirts with far too much lycra in them, flashes of dayglo around the shoulders, the sort of thing that had surely gone out in the nineties, shorts and funny little skirts that made everyone look like they had stunted legs. Like all bad clothes, they looked good only on those lucky few who could get away with a bin bag. That guy over there, for instance, standing by that pillar with a tray of champagne balanced on one hand, the other hand dangling in front of his shorts . . . The clothes seemed to fit him better, to be tight in all the right places. He’d probably snuck off to the toilets to style himself. He was probably an out-of-work model, and almost certainly gay. Well, he’d have the best gossip and the best drugs, thought Victoria, waving aside other offers of drinks and making for the pillar.

‘Drink, love?’

Cocky little sod. Perhaps they’d been told to act like chavs; it was sportswear, after all.

‘I’m gasping for one.’

‘Have two if you like. It’s all free.’

‘I’m aware of that. I have been to launch parties before, you know.’

He didn’t sound particularly gay, although that could have just been the Australian accent. She knocked back the first glass, licked her lips and took another. This one would have to last longer.

She looked around the party for people she knew. They were all there, the same hangers-on, those who lived on champagne and peanuts.

‘Nice dress.’

‘What?’ The waiter, still hovering. ‘Oh, thanks, it’s . . .’

‘Cissé, isn’t it?’

First impressions were obviously right. He must be gay. ‘Clever boy. Go to the top of the class.’

‘I’d rather go to the bottom.’

‘Would you indeed?’ Talk about mixed messages. ‘So what’s a nice boy like you doing serving drinks in a dump like this?’

‘Making money and looking for pussy.’

That cleared that one up, then. ‘I see.’ Victoria did not particularly like being referred to as pussy, at least not on so brief an acquaintance. ‘Well, I hope it’s your lucky night.’

‘And what about you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Stylish bird like you . . . If you can afford to wear a dress like that, what are you doing at a shitty sportswear party like this?’

‘If it’s any of your business, I’m working.’

‘That makes two of us.’ Damn him, he had a beautiful smile, even white teeth, and the body . . . Those muscles . . .

‘As for the dress, it was a gift from the designer.’

‘Isabelle Cissé?’

‘Yes. I know her, you see.’

‘That’s very interesting.’ He stared at her cleavage, and licked his lips. ‘So, as a matter of fact, do I.’