Massimo Rivelli was in and out all day, as much to be seen as to see; this was a public relations exercise, to show people that rumours of his ruin were greatly exaggerated. He had reached an understanding with HM Customs and Excise, put a number of properties on the market, fired his old accountant (who was immediately re-employed in one of the companies that they hadn’t found out about), done the sackcloth-and-ashes routine and was now ready to resume his position as the major powerbroker of the European fashion world.

Two pairs of eyes watched him from opposite sides of the room as the crowds arranged themselves for the Cissé show. Christine was with Andy, both of them beaming with pride, not just for their daughter but also for their son – Ben was DJing for Isabelle’s show, happy and beaming in the DJ booth, eyes closed, headphones squashing down his hair. Christine tried not to stare when Rivelli came into view, a thirtyish blonde on his arm; her heart pounded, but her face retained its customary courtroom composure.

Victoria, who had managed to get herself out of bed, scrubbed up and arrayed in her best Chanel, waited like a statue for Rivelli to notice her. She tried not to let him see her looking, to see the hunger in her eyes. There was That Bitch Christine, the author of her misfortune, with man who looked like – damn it, actually was – her husband. And there in the DJ booth was her handsome son with his dazzling smile and his caramel skin. And somewhere behind the scenes was Isabelle, the cause of all the fuss, waiting for the applause, if it came. Well, hurrah for happy families. By the time Victoria had finished with them, Christine and Andy would wish they’d never met.

Isabelle had sat backstage all day waiting for Will, fending off questions from the stylists and models, telling everyone that the clothes were on their way.

She took a Valium – her last one. Under the circumstances, she didn’t think Will would mind.

At five o’clock, he texted her.

Say nothing. Just smile ☺

Rivelli happened to be near the front entrance of the tent when Will arrived. He looked at Will, smiled and whispered something into the ear of his blonde companion.

‘Ah, Signor Rivelli,’ said Will, marching straight over with his hand outstretched. ‘In for the kill, are you? Jolly good.’

Rivelli did not return the greeting.

‘We might be a bit late starting this evening,’ said Will. ‘We’ve had a few technical hitches. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Ah. What a shame. I had heard something of the sort.’

‘I thought you’d understand. You’ve had a few hitches of your own, haven’t you? Well, that’s the fashion world. We have to make the best of what we’ve got. Let’s just hope everyone has a short memory, eh, Massimo?’