‘Do I look as if I’m joking?’

‘No.’

‘Listen,’ said Victoria, consulting her watch, glancing aside again to make sure Rivelli was still there, ‘I’ve got to do a bit of networking, won’t take me more than half an hour. Does that give you time?’

‘I’ve got all my stuff.’

‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll take a cab. Where do you live?’

‘I’m staying with my mum . . .’

‘Oh . . .’ She tried to sound surprised. ‘Well, I’m in Notting Hill.’ She looked directly into his eyes. He was young – very young – but not inexperienced, she imagined.

‘It’s a deal. Half an hour.’

‘I’m Victoria, by the way.’

‘Safe,’ he said, and she tried not to wince. ‘Ben.’ They shook hands on the deal.

He went one way, she went another.

‘It doesn’t look as if we’re going to see her.’

‘I know. Well, that’s the price of fame, I suppose. I had no idea she was so . . .’

‘What? Talented?’

Andy looked at Christine, Christine looked at Andy.

‘Is that awful?’ she said. ‘I’ve always been proud of her, supported her to the best of my ability, but I suppose in the back of my mind I never thought that this fashion thing was going to take off.’

‘Looks like we underestimated her, then.’

‘Doesn’t it just.’

‘It would have been nice to speak to one of our children, at least,’ said Christine, taking Andy’s arm and strolling out into the evening air. After the heat and noise of the tent, it was a blissful relief. ‘But I can’t see Ben either. I suppose he’s been whisked off somewhere.’

‘In that case,’ said Andy, ‘let me whisk you off too.’

‘Where to?’

‘The night is young. Let’s go for dinner.’

‘You play your cards right, I might let you see me home.’

Rivelli was not in the mood for conversation. He grabbed Victoria by the arm, pulled her behind a curtain and kissed her hard on the neck. She knew his moods; he was angry, he needed the kind of executive stress relief that only the seasoned mistress could provide.

The tent did not offer many opportunities for rough-but-discreet sex, but instinct led her backstage. They were not asked for passes. Rivelli’s face was pass enough.

Cissé’s models were changing into their own clothes, nipping in and out of the toilets. Victoria saw an unoccupied cubicle, barged past a girl who was about to nip in ahead of her, and pulled Rivelli in after her. The walls were only fibreglass, and far from soundproof, and they might well knock the whole thing down, but there was a lock on the door and that was all that mattered.