She curtseyed to left and right and could not be sure of what she saw but she thought that it was her mother and her father and that they were sitting in the same row, and then she was pulled away, floating off to the other side, smiling and bobbing and trying not to lose her balance.

And then there was someone very tall with a French accent and a black suit telling her that she was being taken for lunch tomorrow and they were going to discuss ‘the deal’, and when she said ‘what deal?’ he laughed in a peculiar French way and said ‘You know, you are going to do a collection for Givenchy . . .’

And then there was her father putting his arms around her waist and squeezing her, lifting her up in the air, spinning her around, and every time she turned she saw her mother laughing and clapping. ‘We’re so proud of you, darling,’ said her father, ‘we’re so proud,’ and his arm was round Christine’s waist, and Isabelle felt happy and angry at the same time.

Where was Will? She looked around for him, she wanted his arm to lean on, but he was not there.

He was never there when she needed him.

She needed a drink.

She needed a line of coke.

She needed someone to explain what had happened and how the clothes had got there and why everyone was clapping and smiling and kissing her and wanting a photograph.

She saw Ben in the DJ booth, bopping around in time to the music, the headphones clamped over his hair, a big smile on his face, waving – maybe to her, maybe just to the crowd – far out of reach.

Someone put a glass of champagne in her hand, and she downed it in one.

‘Hey, that was fantastic’ – a familiar voice in her left ear, she turned and there was a face she’d seen on a thousand magazines and album covers, handsome and groomed. Mike Christian, the platinum-selling British rock star with his angelic good looks and his devilish romantic reputation, who alternated massive stadium shows with philanthropic works for every good cause under the sun. He thought she was fantastic. Cameras exploded around them.

‘There are some people I’d like you to meet,’ said Mike, taking her arm.

They seemed to pick up more famous people as they walked through the tent, like scraps of metal attracted to a magnet, and by the time they reached the VIP enclosure, they were quite a party.

‘I’d have dressed up a bit more if I’d known I was coming here,’ said Isabelle to no one in particular. When she walked in on Mike’s arm, there was a round of applause. At least three of the women were wearing Cissé.

Fiona Walker was not one of them. She was looking rather severe, in a high street sort of way.