A snippy supervisor intervened at this point, interposing herself between Victoria and her new friend, precluding any further conversation – for now. Still, thought Victoria, the night is young, and he’ll keep. Obviously ambitious to get on in the fashion world. Probably went to St Martins with Isabelle and Will and is desperate to trade on the connection. A little too old to be their contemporary, but one never knows with Australians. All that ruinous sunshine: half of them look like leather before they’re thirty.

She cruised around the party, chatting here and there, and would have been bored out of her mind if the alternative – sitting at home listening to the phone not ringing – had not been so much worse. She kept the waiter in the corner of her eye at all times.

‘Hello you,’ he said, when the scramble for goodie bags had begun. ‘Still here?’

‘Couldn’t tear myself away,’ said Victoria. ‘I mean, from a party as fabulous as this . . .’

‘Bad, isn’t it?’ He grinned, and her stomach tightened a little. ‘Which makes me wonder what you’re up to.’

‘Espionage,’ improvised Victoria. ‘Have to see what the high street’s doing.’

‘Seen enough?’

‘More than.’

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

‘Your place or . . . your place?’

‘Now then.’ She discreetly smacked him on the arm; it was very hard. ‘We’ll go to Soho House.’

He whistled. ‘Smart. What’s your name, gorgeous?’

‘Victoria.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Victoria,’ He pumped her hand firmly. ‘I’m Joel.’

The Breakthrough Party was all about arriving and leaving; photographers had not been allowed inside the Café de Paris, so half the guests drifted purposelessly around the club, shouting in each other’s ears, paying no attention at all to the speeches and the band. There was a great deal of couture under that domed ceiling.

‘Did you know,’ said Will, ‘that in March 1941 two German bombs fell directly through the roof of the Café de Paris and exploded on the dance floor?’

‘You’re full of cheerful facts.’

‘Eighty people were killed, including the band leader Ken “Snakehips” Johnson. And most of the his band, come to that.’

‘Well,’ said Isabelle, eyeing up the forlorn jazz trio who were tootling above the chatter, ‘let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself tonight.’

‘Think of all those designer dresses drenched with blood. All these celebrities blown to smithereens. What a way to go.’

‘You’re a ghoul.’

‘Think of the headlines the next day. “Mangled corpse wears Cissé frock”.’

‘That’s the kind of publicity I can do without.’

‘Speaking of publicity . . .’

Heads were turning all over the club, and for a moment the parrot-house clamour was silenced, just as the clarinet hit a long, high wail.

‘I can’t see!’ Isabelle jumped up and down. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Jessica Rodean.’

‘Maya’s mother?’

‘Stepmother, to be precise. Rocky Rodean’s fourth wife. She’s only in her thirties, you know.’