‘Sure.’ Will rubbed his hands together, trying to look eager. ‘I mean, you have to be, don’t you?’

‘I’m not quite seeing the budget for the show in here. I mean, assuming these loans come through to cover rent and materials . . .’

‘Which they will.’

‘And even assuming that you’re not planning to pay yourselves anything for the first six months . . .’

‘Well, no, we’ll be living on baked beans and sleeping on the studio floor.’ Will grinned, but couldn’t catch Isabelle’s eye.

‘I still don’t really see how you can put on a professional-quality show for Fashion Week.’ He took off his glasses; his eyes were Wedgwood blue. ‘I mean, those things cost money.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Will, sounding snippy for the first time. He quickly checked himself. ‘Obviously we’re seeking additional revenue.’

‘Please tell me you’re not relying on the British Fashion Council,’ said Fiona, with a ‘heard-it-all-before’ sigh.

‘Among others, yes.’

‘Right. Well, good luck.’ She picked up her black leather monogrammed Louis Vuitton city bag – God, how obvious, thought Isabelle – and put it over her shoulder, rucking up her jacket. The woman doesn’t have a clue – and she’s telling us how to operate? ‘I’d just say, don’t put all your eggs in one basket. The BFC are hard to impress, and they don’t give out money to just anyone.’

‘I’m not . . .’ Isabelle checked the strident tone of her voice; Fiona Walker may look like her mother, but that was no excuse for picking a fight. ‘I’m not just anyone, Fiona. I’m Isabelle Cissé.’

Dan laughed, and Isabelle glared at him; she couldn’t help herself. ‘You certainly are,’ he said. ‘And if it’s any consolation, I’m on the BFC assessments committee for the next six months. I’ll look forward to seeing a top-quality application.’

Fiona Walker raised an eyebrow, and went ahead. Dan gathered up his papers, picked up his jacket, dropped his papers, put down his jacket, tripped over the metal leg of a folding chair, and eventually made it to the door. ‘Don’t worry. I think you’ve got what it takes. Just make sure the sums add up. That’s the best piece of advice I can give you. As for the rest – well, you don’t need a geek like me telling you how to design clothes. Fiona always says I wouldn’t know good design if it bit me on the backside.’ He left.

The studio was silent; there were no more appointments until after lunch.

‘Is she right?’ said Isabelle, eventually.

‘Of course not,’ said Will. ‘She’s a cunt.’

‘Agreed. But she happens to be a powerful and influential cunt who can get us into big stores.’

‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,’ said Will, tugging on a stray lock of her hair, ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea. Mind you, he liked you, didn’t he? Couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She looked down at the floor. She didn’t like hearing Will talking about other men fancying her. Oh God – did this mean that she was starting to think of him as her boyfriend? He’s gay, he’s gay, he’s gay. What happened the other night was nothing, a bit of fun, it happens in the fashion world all the time, it didn’t mean anything, we’re artists, we’re bohemians, he’s gay, he’s gay, he’s gay . . .