‘It’s no good running away from this, Isabelle,’ said Will, who had peeled off his sweater. ‘When we decided to give this a go, we said that we’d have to be shameless when it came to raising capital. I’ve done everything in my power. I’ve got us a great deal on the lease, I’m applying for grants and sponsorship . . .’

‘And you think I’m not pulling my weight, is that it?’

‘Stop being so bloody prickly all the time. Christ, if you’re like this now, what are you going to be like in the middle of winter when we can’t afford to pay the heating bill and we’ve got three weeks in which to turn out a finished collection in time for London Fashion Week? Nobody said it was going to be easy. If you haven’t got the guts to ask your mum for another loan, we might as well chuck in the towel now.’

Isabelle was not used to being spoken to like this, and had she not felt so confused about the whole Will situation she would have told him to fuck off. That’s how she usually dealt with opposition, certainly within the family – not that it ever came from anyone but her mother. Dad always gave her what she wanted. But Dad wasn’t around any more. And whose fault was that?

‘I just don’t want her telling me what to do all the time. You don’t know what she’s like.’

‘Yes I do. She’s a mother. She wants to feel that she’s still important. Right? She doesn’t want to feel that you don’t need her any more.’

‘I need her money. That’s all.’

‘That may be true, but you can’t let her think that. Come on. Cut the woman some slack. From what you’ve told me, she’s not had the easiest couple of years.’

‘Don’t start feeling sorry for her. She’s only got herself to blame.’

‘You’re big on blame, aren’t you, Princess? Ever considered the fact that you might not necessarily understand your mother?’

Isabelle suddenly felt like crying. This was supposed to be a good day, a great day, Day One of the business proper, the birth of the Cissé label – and she was arguing about her mother with a man who, at this point, was looking almost painfully sexually attractive, with his floppy black fringe and his funny little beard and his pale, freckly arms.

‘Okay. I’ll ask her.’

‘Good girl. Just do exactly as I tell you and in two years’ time, we’ll have made it.’

‘You’re very confident.’

‘You’re very talented.’

‘But there are millions of talented designers. Look!’ She gestured around Hoxton Square, where she recognised at least eight recent graduates from the Central St Martins fashion course, not to mention a few former bright sparks who were now little more than fashionably dressed embers. ‘What makes us so special?’

‘You.’

‘Look, Will, I know you think I’m great . . .’

‘I do.’ He put his hand over hers – the sort of gesture he’d made a thousand times before . . . before that . . . and it had meant nothing . . . but now . . .