Since the first fine careless rapture of February Fashion Week, Isabelle felt as if she’d aged ten years. How fast it had gone from innocence to experience, from the heady rush of ‘Can we do it? Yes we can!’ to the grinding reality of not enough hours in the day, not enough money in the bank, the pressure of expectation. The first Cissé collection had been an explosion of colour and energy and the sheer delight of dressing up; the second collection has to prove that Cissé was not just a flash in the fashion pan. Everyone was waiting for the outcome, ready to pick over the carcass if she failed – or, if she succeeded, to be her best friend. Isabelle worked hard, methodically, joylessly; and somehow, from that dark and dreary time, Isabelle created clothes that put the first collection in the shade. Will said they were on course for the Oscars – and if the money troubles continued, they would simply sack Rivelli and find a better deal. All that mattered were the clothes, and the clothes were perfect.

And then, three days before the London Fashion Week show, the entire collection went missing.

Will was in New York, showing samples and negotiating terms with Saks, the film studios and a couple of advertising agencies who were sniffing around for their business.

Isabelle was in Paris, doing press for Mode à Paris and taking the time to visit a few fabric suppliers and be lunched and wooed by representatives of the big couture houses who were eager to employ her.

The Hoxton studio was locked up, the spring/summer collection ready to be shown, barring last-minute zhoozhing, on rails inside.

They were both due back on the same day.

Will was the first to arrive on that fateful Tuesday morning.

The first thing he noticed was that the chain on the door was missing. He didn’t panic immediately; Isabelle kept peculiar hours, and could easily have come straight from St Pancras without going home first. He would tell her off for being a workaholic, tell her to get some rest, a shower, some breakfast . . .

He opened up. The studio was empty. Not just of people, but of clothes as well.

Will went through a rapid mental checklist.

Isabelle could have taken the clothes to the venue for a lighting rehearsal. No – she would never think of that, let alone have the energy to do it.

Isabelle could have organised a photoshoot with . . . no. Scratch that. She hated photoshoots. What else?

He might have forgotten some arrangement he’d made with someone for something . . . He rushed into his office, knocking into one of the partition walls as he did so; it wobbled precariously. There was his diary, on the desk . . . But wait. Things had been moved. Drawers were open, a folder of invoices on the floor, disruption in the filing department.