‘Yes, madame, I understand very well. It is a serious accusation. Perhaps you have mistaken yourself?’

‘I do not think so, monsieur. I am a lawyer.’

He sighed, clicked out his ballpoint pen, prepared to write.

‘And what is the name of your . . . comment dire . . . your prime suspect?’

‘Massimo Rivelli.’

The pen stopped suddenly, a few millimetres above the paper.

‘Ah.’

‘You have heard of him?’

‘Oui, madame. Monsieur Rivelli is bien connu.’

He has the police in his pocket.

‘Then perhaps you will understand . . .’

‘A moment, please.’

He left the room, no doubt to make a call.

She couldn’t wait any longer. Will was missing – and Isabelle would have to go to the Oscars alone. Mike was in no fit state to escort her, however great the publicity coup; turning up for the Academy Awards with a stinking, drunken unshaven megastar was really not going to help. She dressed – it didn’t take long, just a shower and half an hour in front of the make-up mirror, then stepping into one of her own dresses, a simple plum-coloured calf-length number, and a trusted pair of Manolo Blahniks, a final frizz of the hair and, as an afterthought, a gardenia from an arrangement in the hall behind her right ear.

The car was ready.

She called Will’s number one more time, and, when he didn’t answer, called the police.

‘I know this sounds ridiculous,’ she said, ‘but I want to report a missing person.’

Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the Kodak Theatre.

Isabelle knew how to get out of a car – both feet first, knees together, slide forward and then sort of unfold into a standing position, being careful not to lean over too much – one didn’t want to give the photographers a tit shot. Not accidentally, at least.

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?