She knew what she was getting herself into, all those years ago when she first met Massimo at Adele’s place. His reputation preceded him – enhanced him, even, with a sort of criminal glamour. There were rumours of business associates who had suddenly disappeared, of rivals who were, one day, rivals no longer . . . God help anyone who crossed Massimo Rivelli. God help Christine Fairbrother and Janet Rivelli and Will Francis and the rest of the fools in London. Victoria turned in the water, felt the Provençal sun warming her belly, slightly swollen now, and let the water support her, floating, floating effortlessly . . .

Mike was doing a concert in New York, and Isabelle was left rattling around the house in Laurel Canyon, making calls, sending emails, trying to keep on top of which samples had gone where, commanding an army of couriers and florists, cursing the time difference that made it so bloody difficult to talk to London. There was nothing for it: she’d have to go back and sort things out herself – as soon as she knew who was going to be wearing Cissé . . .

‘Darling, such a shame, but never mind, there’s always next year and the year after that and the year after that,’ said Maya when they met at a trade event at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. ‘If you’re still in business, of course.’

‘Oh, I will be, don’t you worry about that.’

‘Mmmmh,’ said Maya, sticking her tongue into her cheek. ‘Let’s hope so.’

‘And you, Maya. How’s H&M coming along? I’m sure I saw your stuff in Santee Alley last week. What’s next? A line for Wal-Mart?’

Maya laughed super-loud. ‘Oh darling, didn’t you know? I’ve bust a new deal with Laruche. Isn’t that a hoot? Paris here I come.’

Isabelle hadn’t heard, and wasn’t at all sure that she believed.

‘So there’s a very real chance that we’ll meet on the red carpet, as it were,’ said Maya. ‘How are you getting on? It must be so hard as an independent.’

‘Very well,’ lied Isabelle.

Maya saw someone she knew, looked at Isabelle with that special look of pity that most people reserve for crippled puppies, and swanned off.

Laruche? One of the big five Paris couture houses? Could it be true, after her famous flop with Versace? Had this news spread to London? Would they all be kissing her arse again, all those failed designers and St Martins staff who were so quick to bury her before? Would Cherry Lucas be featuring ‘Maya for Laruche’ in Vogue before the end of the year? Had the wheel of fortune turned so quickly?