The PR/PA’s sole function seemed to be to get Isabelle to turn up for her in-store appearance – the twenty-minute slot that she’d flown all the way across the Atlantic for, but which he seemed to think she might either forget or run away from. He’d taken on the additional task of reducing her to a nervous wreck by his incessant talking about problems which didn’t yet exist and probably never would; perhaps the clothes wouldn’t be there on time, perhaps the journalists would defect en bloc to another event, perhaps there would be a fire alarm in the middle of Isabelle’s short speech of thanks. ‘Perhaps they’ll forget to put fifty cents in the meter and we’ll all be plunged in to darkness,’ offered Will, which set the PR/PA’s hands flapping even more.

In the event, Isabelle was there on time, the press turned out in numbers and the event passed off without mishap or force majeure.

The line that Saks had bought was simple but striking evening wear, based around the less fantastical items in Cissé’s debut collection. There were three key pieces: a black strapless mini dress with a sweetheart bodice, a chiffon halter party dress with a gathered waistband and a floaty skirt, available in half a dozen signature Cissé colours, and, finally, a shirred V-neck dress, sleeveless, ruched all over and plunging way down at the front, that came in pewter or teal. Dull enough on the page, perhaps – but, from the buzz among the journalists and the delighted gasps of the shoppers who crowded around the models, the very thing to get Manhattan ladies dipping deep into their pocketbooks.

The PR/PA shoved a selection of celebrities at Isabelle – he assured her they were celebrities, although she recognised none of them – and got them photographed. Finally, there was a woman whom Isabelle dimly remembered having seen on television, and when she heard Will’s slightly vocalised intake of breath, she assumed that she was revered in gay circles, if not globally, and so she smiled a little more brightly for the cameras.

‘Now I’m impressed,’ said Will as they went down in the elevator. ‘I mean, if she wore Cissé on one of her shows . . .’

‘Then we’d have every drag queen in Lower Manhattan coming up to nick our stuff from the racks of Saks Fifth Avenue,’ said Isabelle. The PR/PA stifled a giggle. ‘Am I right?’

‘Darling,’ said Will, ‘talented you may be, but you ain’t Pat Field. Yet.’

‘No, you can’t come with me. What would be the point of that?’

‘What am I going to do this afternoon, then?’