She was looking good, she knew, and a few of the photographers dutifully snapped her just in case she was somebody. But they didn’t seem to recognise her without Mike – and most of them were still focused on the last couple to walk up the red carpet, a tiny little woman with a huge head accompanied by a slouching giant of a man, both of them covered in tattoos and piercings. The fact that they were alive at all, both out of prison and together, was headline news. The rest of the photographers were looking over Isabelle’s shoulder for whoever might come next. Gorgeous and talented she may be, but that was really not enough. She’d need something really salacious to get their interest.

She kept smiling until she was inside, feeling as if she’d just turned up to a school disco without a date. Without Mike, she was just a little black girl from England, Europe, and why would anyone want to talk to her?

There was a commotion behind her, a blitzkrieg of flashguns, and suddenly a phalanx of security men in tight tuxedos barged into the lobby, clearing a path. Some of them, Isabelle noticed with horror, were armed. They formed two lines, feet planted firmly apart, arms folded. Isabelle, near the door, had a perfect view down the red carpet.

The red carpet up which Mercy Williams was walking, stopping, posing, turning, running a few steps, blowing kisses, throwing her head back, laughing. At this rate it would take her twenty minutes to get into the theatre.

Mercy Williams – as of the last news bulletin, the bookies’ favourite for the Best Actress award.

Mercy Williams – wearing a Cissé dress.

A man pushed in front of Isabelle, blocking her view just as Mercy stepped through the doors and into the lobby. She wanted to scream, to get Mercy’s attention, to let her know that she was here and that she was so grateful, so proud, that this was the biggest moment in her life . . . But a pair of broad, gym-built shoulders was pressing back into her face. She crouched down, stuck her head through the forest of legs, dislodging the gardenia, which was quickly trampled to compost. And so she saw the hem of her gown, close enough to admire the stitchwork in the silver satin, a pair of sturdy black calves tapering to elegant ankles and a pair of life-threatening Patrick Cox jewelled sandals that seemed to float half an inch off the floor.

So that was it. Everything they had worked towards, accomplished.

She withdrew her head from the scrum, but not before getting her nose squashed into an arse.

The security guards dematerialised, and she was swept by the tide towards the main room.

Ticket check after ticket check after ticket check.

The interior of the Kodak Theatre was bigger than some towns in England.