‘Well, you had us all fooled there,’ she said, standing straight in front of Isabelle, blocking her way.

‘Oh . . . Yes . . .’ How much did people know?

‘We thought you were just going to be a one-trick pony.’ She raised a glass of champagne. ‘I have to hand it to you, Isabelle Cissé. Dan was right. You do have talent.’

Dan! Where was he? Isabelle looked right and left, but could not see him in the sea of famous faces.

‘He’s outside, love,’ said Fiona, suddenly matey. ‘They didn’t have enough VIP passes for everyone, I’m afraid, and, well . . .’ She gestured around her. ‘Dan doesn’t really fit in here, does he? Mr Marks and Sparks.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Isabelle, but she was already being whisked away from Fiona who, when it came right down to it, was only a sales agent.

She disappeared into a crowd, where she had the not unpleasant sensation of being eaten alive.

Victoria knew everyone, but very few people seemed to know her – even people who had kissed her arse in the good old days. If she couldn’t get to Rivelli, at least she could hurt Christine, by seducing her son. She had to do something.

She made her way towards the DJ booth as Ben was packing up.

‘Great set,’ said Victoria, as Ben stepped down, a big grin on his wide, handsome face.

‘Thanks. I saw you dancing.’

‘Did you really? I bet you say that to all the girls.’

‘No.’

He wasn’t exactly a great conversationalist, thought Victoria, but she persevered.

‘Well, your big sister is the star of the show.’

‘You know her?’

‘Oh yes, we go way back. I got her her first big break, you know.’

‘Right.’ Ben was looking over her head, searching for his family.

‘So, do you have a deal?’

‘What?’

‘A record deal. I mean, I assume you’re a recording artist. The way you mix . . . You can always tell.’

Ben stopped looking around. ‘Yeah, I am as a matter of fact.’

‘I knew it. What sort of stuff?’

His eyes lit up. ‘All sorts. Electro. Kind of mash-ups. Putting stuff together that sounds fresh . . .’

Victoria felt someone looking at her, caught the flash of a familiar pair of eyes in her peripheral vision. Adjusting her hair gave an excuse to glance to one side – and there was Rivelli, not so much watching her as glaring at her, an expression on his face like a ravenous wolf. Ah, he had got rid of his date. At last. She nodded, lowered her eyelids, and turned back to Ben, who was still talking in musical terms that meant nothing to her.

She gave him another forty-five seconds, then ‘You see, I’m going on to a party tonight that’s going to be full of A&R people, if you fancied coming along. I mean, they’re always looking for new talent. I think you should come.’

‘For real?’