Isabelle waited all day for a quiet moment in which to tell Will. She’d done the pregnancy test first thing in the morning, bowing before the undeniable fact that her period was late. She’d been irregular before, particularly during her cocaine-and-starvation diet, but now there was absolutely no reason for her to be anything other than normal. And this wasn’t just a question of two or three days. This was a week.

Journalists and buyers had been in and out all day, congratulating them on their New York success, hoping for a sneak preview of the spring – summer collection, which was still very much under wraps. Dan Parker had been in for a quick catch-up, the first time they’d since him since they got home – but Isabelle had chosen just that time to go out. Will talked him through various figures and contracts, but Dan was out of it. He might just as well have been talking to an empty room.

‘I saw the pictures from New York,’ said Dan. ‘Looks like you had a great time.’

‘Yeah, we did.’

‘I guess Isabelle has a boyfriend now.’

It was the nearest he’d ever come to a declaration of interest. Will didn’t know quite what to say.

‘Isabelle’s very much in demand.’

Dan sighed – a terrible, soul-shattering sigh that came from somewhere around his heart. ‘Oh well. I suppose I missed my chance. Sorry, Will. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

And now he’d gone, and Isabelle returned – almost as if she’d been waiting for his departure – and she’d dropped the bombshell. She was pregnant. It had happened in New York. It was Marco’s.

‘Did it not occur to you to use protection? I mean, he’s a New York party boy, for God’s sake.’

‘Thank you for adding that to my list of things to worry about. I meant to. I thought we were going to. It’s just that when it happened . . .’

‘You sort of forgot.’

‘Yes. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I killed someone.’

‘I despair. And now what are you going to do?’

‘It’s none of your business.’ Isabelle’s voice was high and thready; she was going to cry. Will put an arm round her shoulder.

‘Excuse me, madam, but it’s very much my business. Am I your best friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then.’

‘Oh God, Will, what have I done?’

She wept at last, big fat tears plopping off the end of her nose and on to her skirt.

‘You’ve done what millions of women do every year. You’ve gone and got yerself knocked up. It’s not the end of the world.’

‘But I can’t . . .’

‘What?’ Will thought she was going to say I can’t get rid of it.

‘I can’t have it.’

‘Oh. No. I suppose not.’

‘I mean, not now.’