The minute the announcement was made, she’d call Will and get him to courier over whatever was necessary. Dresses of every colour, shape and length with which to tempt the nominees. The competition was fierce. Paris had rolled out the big guns, and they would be there with their million-dollar dresses, their jewellery and accessories, their chequebooks open. Cissé was young, new, almost unknown, British, a designer David battling the Goliaths of couture.

It might work.

It must work.

The nominations were days away. Isabelle could think of nothing else.

A ring at the doorbell. Probably a religious lunatic asking if she wanted to meet Lord Jesus Christ, or someone to read the meter, perhaps. Unless it was . . . No, John would never come round unannounced, would he?

A silhouette through the frosted glass of the front door – a man. Christine experienced a moment of fear, but she could not exactly say why.

‘Who is it?’

Surely not Joel . . .

‘It’s Will.’

Will? It took a few moments, and then she opened the door just as he was saying ‘Isabelle’s partner’.

Oh God. Something is wrong.

‘Will! Come in. Are you alone?’

‘What? Oh, yes. She’s still in LA.’

‘Yes, of course. Are you all right? Is Isabelle all right?’

‘She’s fine.’ He stood in the hall, wiping his feet repeatedly on the mat, clutching a bottle of wine. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’

‘Is that for me?’

‘What? Oh, yes.’ He handed the bottle over. ‘You must think it’s very strange, me coming around like this.’

‘Well, I suppose it is, rather.’

‘The thing is, I need some advice.’

‘If you want advice about my daughter, you’ve come to the wrong place.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Has she sent you around to tap me for more money?’

Will laughed. ‘No. But it is about money, all the same.’

They sat in the kitchen and opened the wine.

‘You know Isabelle and I did not part on the best of terms when she went to LA,’ said Christine.

‘She’s . . . difficult, at the moment.’

‘You’re telling me. So what’s the problem.’

‘She’s buying this house in Chelsea. We can’t afford it.’

‘I thought things were going so well.’

‘They are. But we’re owed a lot of money.’

‘Don’t tell me. Rivelli.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Call it a lawyer’s instinct. How much?’

‘Hundreds of thousands of pounds.’

‘Ouch. And Isabelle doesn’t know this?’

‘I’ve tried to tell her.’

‘But she won’t listen. Yes, that sounds like my daughter.’

‘And the trouble is, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve . . . well, I’ve done something rather stupid.’

He told her about Joel, and the kidnapping of the collection.

‘Hmmm,’ said Christine. ‘Theft to order. Nasty little crime. Nasty little man.’

‘Who? Rivelli?’

‘I meant Joel. You know that he and I have history, I suppose.’

‘You?’