‘And you think we can just breeze in and get them to take our stuff?’

‘No. That’s why we need a good sales agent. That’s why we’re seeing them. We’re creating a buzz. We’re schmoozing.’

‘And flirting, in your case.’

‘Never underestimate the power of sexual attraction in this business, darling.’

‘You certainly don’t. God knows who you had to shag to get the lease on this place.’

Isabelle could feel herself blushing, and was grateful for a skin tone that concealed embarrassment so well. Will, on the other hand, had gone bright red. Neither could look the other in the eye. Since the ‘studio-warming party’ – just the two of them, and a couple of bottles of champagne, dancing around the empty studio floor, sharing the headphones of Will’s iPod, finally collapsing on the futon that they’d dragged up the stairs earlier, the only piece of furniture . . . And then . . . And then . . .

‘Isabelle, this is Fiona Walker, and Dan Parker, from Parker Walker.’

‘Walker Parker, actually.’

‘Oh.’ Will looked again at the card in his hand. ‘I beg your pardon. Walker Parker. Fiona. Dan. This is Isabelle Cissé, the talent in our little operation.’

Hands were shaken, seats taken; the studio now boasted four folding kitchen chairs and a rather rickety round table that Will had borrowed from a local café. As they were seeing potential business associates, there was a large piece of pink fabric draped over it, scavenged long ago from St Martins, and a vase of white lilies. Will had brought the flowers in first thing, and presented them to Isabelle with a flourish. She’d accepted them as a gift, until he said ‘I always think flowers set the right tone for a meeting, don’t you?’

Fiona Walker was giving Isabelle the serious once-over, taking in every detail of her hair, her clothes, her make-up. Either she was an astute judge of fashion, or a lesbian, or quite possibly both. Isabelle touched the back of her head; her hair was tied up in a blue silk scarf, another St Martins offcut, and she had big gold hoops in her ears. God, she realised, she thinks I’m some kind of chav. Fiona, for her part, was dressed for business, in a black two-piece, probably by some fabulous designer but it might just as well have come from Next, and a plain white shirt. Her red hair – dyed, Isabelle thought – was sleek and neatly cut. She looked not unlike her mother. Isabelle felt herself bristling.

‘So,’ said Fiona, while Dan Parker busied himself with a list of figures that Will had shoved under his nose, ‘this is where it’s all going to happen.’

‘Yes. That’s the general idea.’ Little does she know, thought Isabelle, just what’s happened already . . . The unexpected embrace, the kisses, and then – was it just the champagne? – the sudden flurry of passion, hands clutching, hips thrusting, before they rolled apart, silent and self conscious . . .