Of course, as soon as the new collection went into production, they would appoint a new manufacturer; Will had the sole satisfaction of taking his business elsewhere, and letting everyone know that Rivelli was a swindler. Further than that he dared not go. He simply had to hope that, somehow, Cissé could survive without the money from their first year in business, most of which was still sitting in Rivelli’s bank account somewhere in Milan. Well, the orders were coming in all right. Walker Parker were happy on that account. Isabelle’s stock was high – she was famous now, a celebrity on both sides of the Atlantic. Surely that had to count for something. The paltry six-figure sum that Rivelli owed them was just a drop in the ocean – wasn’t it? They could chalk the whole thing up to experience, and move on. If only Isabelle wasn’t so hell bent on this bloody great white elephant in Chelsea. But even that was possible – if they got to the Oscars. That would solve everything.

And if not? Goodbye Cissé, goodbye to a future in fashion, hello again to his father’s haulage company and a lifetime of regret. All because of Joel.

The first shock came when Andy opened the door. Andy, not Christine. Isabelle saw her father as if for the first time – saw how handsome he was, how well put-together, how his clothes fitted where they touched. Christine was right behind him, wearing an apron, wiping her hands on a tea towel, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

‘Well!’ Christine came towards her, put her hands on her shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Here we all are, together at last.’

Isabelle walked straight through to the kitchen. ‘Is Ben here?’ ‘He’s upstairs. Fooling around on a guitar, I expect.’

Isabelle took the stairs two by two.

‘Do you want a drink, darling?’ shouted Andy, but she did not reply.

‘What the fuck is going on?’

Ben was sprawled on the bed, a guitar lying across his groin, headphones on, eyes closed.

‘Oi!’

She kicked him on the leg, and he sat up.

‘Hi sister. What’s up?’ He half pulled the headphones off; she could hear tinny little twiddles as he fooled around on the fretboard.

‘You tell me. What’s he doing here?’

‘Dad? I dunno. Come for lunch, I suppose.’

‘Come for lunch? Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. They’re divorced. Or were you too stoned to notice that?’

‘I think it’s nice that they’re friends again.’ Ben scowled, which was a rare occurrence. ‘Now you’re here, I’m having a drink.’

‘I’m not going down there until I know what’s going on.’

She was fifteen again, taking refuge upstairs until everyone was so worn out by the bad atmosphere that she got what she wanted.

‘Okay.’ Ben unplugged the headphones, switched off his guitar. ‘See you later, then.’ He slouched out of the room.