She’d be alone, of course, but there would always be trips to LA to see Mike . . . To do shows . . . Wouldn’t there? Maybe. If she could only get to the Oscars . . . If the business didn’t go bust . . .

She stepped away from the window; it was too high, the view too great, just too much space. She drew the curtains.

She was hungry, having stormed out of Will’s place without eating, and so she rummaged through the kitchen for food.

The cupboard was bare.

Well, she’d have to go out. She didn’t mind eating alone. But eating alone in fashionable Los Angeles restaurants was rather different from sitting in an east London tandoori, being chatted up by waiters and stared at by other customers. If only there was someone she could call and go out with, just a friendly, spur-of-the-moment type thing . . .

But there was no one. She’d let them all go, and willingly. All her old friends, all the kids from Saint Martins, all the people she’d chatted and gossiped to in Hoxton Square that summer – when was it, a hundred years ago? And what was she left with? A few agents and publicists and stylists who might think it was worth spending an evening with her, unless, of course, they knew that Cissé was going down the pan. They’d all be chasing Maya now. Maya meant Laruche. And Laruche meant Tilly Ostergard. And Tilly Ostergard was the favourite for the Best Actress Oscar.

There had always been Will before . . .

Ben was at college. Dad was in Dubai. Mum . . . well, she wasn’t speaking to Mum.

And then she suddenly remembered Dan Parker, and pizzas by the river, and talking about childhood pets, dancing along the Embankment, one kiss that should have led to others but never did . . .

How long ago?

How long ago . . .

Dispirited and giddy, she let herself out of the flat. A trip to town, somewhere there was life, just to stop this horrible feeling of vertigo.

A woman was walking along the corridor, feet noiseless on the heavy carpet. She was tall, good looking, a bit older than Isabelle but no more than thirty, unless she had the best Botox in town. She was wearing a long belted suede coat, dark tan boots – they looked like Salvatore Ferragamos to Isabelle – and she was carrying a very desirable YSL handbag in blue leather. Posh neighbours Dad has, thought Isabelle, as the woman stopped and rummaged in her bag for a key.

And then she looked up, and saw Isabelle coming out of the flat. Her mouth fell open. The key, held forward, jabbed forward like a weapon.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but who the hell are you?’

‘I’m Isabelle.’

The woman frowned. ‘You’ve got a key?’

‘So have you.’

The woman stepped to the right; Isabelle mirrored her.

‘He’s not here, you know.’