Was this what she was – a plaything to be passed from one rich, powerful lover to another, adored at first, soon tired of, never to know security or stability, never to enjoy the satisfaction of achieving something for herself, of making even a modest income by her own efforts and talents? Rivelli had dumped her – and how soon before Leanne, who seemed like a saviour, grew tired of their one-sided lovemaking and found someone else to inspire her? While paintings of her hung on gallery walls all over the world, Victoria herself would be back on the shelf. The art career – the journalism – all of it seemed as insubstantial as steam. She opened the window, scent flooding out into the chilly evening air. This was reality, then – a woman with no real friends, no family of her own, facing her late thirties with no visible means of support. Time was running out.

Beyond the screen of trees and the high wall at the front of Leanne’s house, Victoria could see cars gliding quietly along wet streets, headlights and tail lights illuminating the fine drizzle, occasionally the tap-tap-tap of feet on the pavement, people on their way somewhere, busy, happy, with hopes and disappointments and excitements and problems of their own. And she was here, at the top of a house set far back from the traffic of life, trapped – so she felt – in a strange, unreal bubble, powerless, drugged by luxury, half asleep, cut off.

I must get out of here. I must escape.

Will was enthroned like an Eastern potentate on a high-backed chair. Drinks had been brought to him, an assistant hovered at his shoulder, recording his opinions as a long line of the most beautiful men in London paraded before his eyes. Will decided he rather liked castings. It certainly made a change from the atmosphere at the studio. Since Fashion Week – especially since the abortion – Isabelle was not fun to be around.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the head of the model agency, ‘that last one was absolutely dreadful. I was only giving him a chance as a favour to a friend of mine. Never again.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Will. ‘I thought he was kind of cute.’

‘Darling, cute counts for very little in this business. There are millions of cute boys with nice bodies and handsome faces . . .’

‘Great!’

‘But if they have a bad attitude and they don’t know how to behave in front of the camera, they’re best off flipping burgers or turning tricks or however else they’ve been making a living up to now.’

‘You’re right,’ sighed Will, ‘he didn’t have a clue. What was his name, by the way?’

The head of the model agency consulted her list. ‘Joel Warner,’ she said, in a voice that she might have used to say ‘you’ve trodden in something’.