And then it was the supporting roles.

Mercy Williams’s co-star didn’t win. But that was probably a good thing. They would never give Oscars to two black actors in one year. That just wouldn’t happen. The field was still clear. Mercy could still win.

Not that it mattered. That’s what Will would tell her: the job was done, they’d been on the red carpet, they had arrived. They had achieved the impossible – from graduation to the Oscars in less than two years. They had done what no other British designer had done before them. The next few years were going to be Mercy, legendary, the stuff of dreams.

That’s what he would tell her when she saw him, later, after the show, after laughing off whatever disaster had befallen him, good old Will, always some adventure to recount.

‘And the nominees are . . .’

She had a sensation of abrupt sideways motion, and thought that there was an earthquake, but the foundations of the Kodak Theatre remained firm. It was just the feeling of slipping into unreality, of living real life through the medium of fiction. This could not be happening to her, as she had seen it happen so often before to others . . .

‘Tilly Ostergard, for Our Little Secret.’

Cheers and whistles.

‘Roberta Ralston, for Thin Ice.’

Whoops and hollers.

‘Shirley-Anne Prentice, for Gerald and Company.’

Sighs and aaaaahs for an actress so near the grave.

‘Helena Moorcastle for The Architect’s Secret.’

Grave applause, which always greeted English actresses.

‘And Mercy Williams, for Moanin’ Low.’

Mayhem. Cheers, whistles, whoops, hollers, a kind of frenzy. Mercy’s face lurched into giant close-up on the screen.

Security men appeared in the aisles. God, surely they weren’t anticipating a riot? Crowds hurling themselves from the balcony to devour the stars, Day of the Locust-style?

The announcer fumbled cutely with the envelope. ‘Oh, I’m so excited . . .’

A uniformed guard made his way along the row.

‘Sit down, buddy!’

‘Get out of my way, asshole!’

‘And the winner is . . .’

And hand tapped Isabelle’s shoulder. She looked up. Will?

‘Oh my gosh . . .’

‘Miss Cissé?’ He pronounced it Cissy. She saw his badge. LAPD.

‘Yes?’

‘The winner is Mercy Williams!’

Hysteria, over which the police officer shouted ‘Please come with me, ma’am. There’s been an accident.’

This time there were three of them: le Capitaine, le Commandant et le Commissaire.

‘Bonjour, madame.’

She couldn’t be bothered to correct him. This one had a very full head of white hair, a deep tan and blue eyes. He looked like George Peppard, Christine thought.

‘You have, I understand, a complaint to make of Massimo Rivelli.’

Is he about to tell me that they play golf together?

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Please.’ They all sat down, three men on one side, Christine on the other.

‘I believe that he may have been responsible for an attack on a friend of mine.’