‘But it’s not about talent, is it? I could be creating the greatest evening wear the world has ever seen . . .’

‘You will.’

‘And it won’t make a bit of difference. This business is all about who you are, who you know, who your father is, who’s paying the bills. Look at Maya Rodean. Couldn’t design her way out of a paper bag, and she’s already showing her own line this autumn.’

‘Maya Rodean is a freak. A blip. Oh, they’ll be all over her at the autumn/winter shows, she’ll get great write-ups for her first collection, and if she’s got any sense she’ll make some bloody good deals and pocket a shitload of money before they realise that her designs are crap and that the only worthwhile thing about her is her father’s famous name. In two years’ time, she’ll have retired.’

‘Right. And we’ll be the plucky underdogs who, through sheer tenacity and talent, win through to glory.’

‘Why not?’

‘Darling, if you weren’t gay, I’d say you’ve been watching too much Match of the Day.’

‘I quite like football, as it happens.’

‘You like footballers. It’s not quite the same thing.’

‘You make too many assumptions about people, Isabelle.’They were back on dangerous territory. ‘Come on. Time to go. People to see, deals to be struck, fashion history to be made.’

‘Just let me design,’ said Isabelle. ‘That’s all I’m good at.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ Will goosed her, and walked out of the square, hands in his pockets, whistling a merry tune.

‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

Joel was holding Christine’s wrist in one large paw, gently pressing two fingers on her pulse. ‘Sixty percent of target heart rate after ten minutes at moderate intensity.’

‘Is that good?’

‘For a woman of your age, it’s very good.’

‘Thank you.’ Christine heard the word ‘age’ rather than the words ‘very good’, and applied a sarcastic tone to match. Joel was unconcerned, if he’d even noticed. She’d reversed judgements with less, and yet he was oblivious. Thick, perhaps. But he did have very gentle hands, for all their size.

‘You’re fit.’

‘Am I?’ She took back her wrist.

‘Yeah. Considering your . . .’

Christine put her hands over her ears. ‘Please don’t say age again.’

‘I was going to say, considering your occupation. Lawyer, right? Sit at a desk all day?’

‘Good lord, no. I’m on my feet, in a heavy wool gown and a horsehair wig, and usually high heels.’

‘What, like in court?’

‘Very much like in court. In fact, actually in court.’

‘Like on TV?’

‘Usually not much like on TV, in fact, but I know what you mean.’

‘You mean you’re one of them that does all the “your honour this” and “your honour that” type stuff?’

Christine had never heard her years of legal training and experience thus described, but she said ‘Yes. That’s me. I’m a barrister.’

‘Wow,’ said Joel, his eyes shining. ‘I’m well impressed. Beautiful and brainy.’