Rivelli did not like being called ‘Massimo’ by men, especially homosexuals.

‘Because we had a bit of a shock a few days ago, you see,’ continued Will, acting for all the world as if they were the best of friends, even touching Rivelli’s girlfriend on the arm in an over-familiar gay sort of way. ‘Our whole spring/summer collection was stolen! Yes! Right out of the studio! I mean, who would have believed that? So we’ve been in a hell of a state as you can imagine, chasing around town trying to put something together.’

‘Unfortunate,’ was all Rivelli said.

‘Yes, terribly unfortunate. Still, the police have been fantastic. It’s absolutely amazing how seriously they took it all. I believe they’re very close to making an arrest.’

‘Indeed. Very good.’

‘Isn’t it? Anyway, Massi old chap, I must dash. Lovely to meet your latest slut girlfriend. You’re even cheaper than the last one, darling.’

Rivelli reached out to grab him, but Will slipped between the bystanders too fast.

The catwalk was nearly forty feet long, lined on either side by twenty tiered rows of seating, thrusting down the tent under a massive lighting rig that looked as if it could pull the whole edifice down, or set it alight, or just drop on someone’s head. At one end there was a plain white diorama, on to which various designers had projected experimental films, or hung logos, or, if the budgets were small, simply shone a few coloured lights. For the Cissé show, a huge piece of flame-coloured silk had been dropped from the roof, covering the diorama, concealing a battery of wind machines which made it move like flame.

The guests took their place in the front rows – journalists, fellow designers, top stylists and, in the most visible seats, the celebrities, the actors and singers and supermodels and sport stars by whom the success of a show was measured. Cissé was a hit before a single stitch had been shown.

Victoria made do with a fourth-row seat, stage left.

Christine and Andy were front row, stage right, but far too near the stage to be really important. Victoria looked down on them in every sense of the word, and watched Christine waving and blowing kisses towards the DJ booth.

Rivelli escorted his scraggy new girlfriend to their front-row seats, and whispered in her ear. She smiled. She had terrible teeth.

How he must miss me, in his heart of hearts, thought Victoria.

Ben finished his set, the house lights went down, and massively amplified cello music boomed through the tent.

Just before the tent went dark, both Victoria and Christine had the distinct impression that they had seen Joel slipping out from the backstage area and disappearing into the shadows.

But there was no time to think about it. The show had begun. Rivelli found his companion’s hand, and squeezed. He was going to enjoy this.