There was a commotion behind her, a blitzkrieg of flashguns, and suddenly a phalanx of security men in tight tuxedos barged into the lobby, clearing a path. Some of them, Isabelle noticed with horror, were armed. They formed two lines, feet planted firmly apart, arms folded. Isabelle, near the door, had a perfect view down the red carpet.

The red carpet up which Mercy Williams was walking, stopping, posing, turning, running a few steps, blowing kisses, throwing her head back, laughing. At this rate it would take her twenty minutes to get into the theatre.

Mercy Williams – as of the last news bulletin, the bookies’ favourite for the Best Actress award.

Mercy Williams – wearing a Cissé dress.

A man pushed in front of Isabelle, blocking her view just as Mercy stepped through the doors and into the lobby. She wanted to scream, to get Mercy’s attention, to let her know that she was here and that she was so grateful, so proud, that this was the biggest moment in her life . . . But a pair of broad, gym-built shoulders was pressing back into her face. She crouched down, stuck her head through the forest of legs, dislodging the gardenia, which was quickly trampled to compost. And so she saw the hem of her gown, close enough to admire the stitchwork in the silver satin, a pair of sturdy black calves tapering to elegant ankles and a pair of life-threatening Patrick Cox jewelled sandals that seemed to float half an inch off the floor.

So that was it. Everything they had worked towards, accomplished.

She withdrew her head from the scrum, but not before getting her nose squashed into an arse.

The security guards dematerialised, and she was swept by the tide towards the main room.

Ticket check after ticket check after ticket check.

The interior of the Kodak Theatre was bigger than some towns in England.

Isabelle found her place, and placed her bag on the empty seat beside her. He might yet arrive, out of breath, grinning, some ridiculous story at the ready.

Huge video screens relayed the arrivals, the red carpet highlights.

They were all here – somewhere among those tiny shiny dots down there, each arrayed in tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of borrowed finery, were the most famous people in the world. Among them Mercy Williams.

Mercy Williams in a Cissé dress.

She came up on the screen – an oven-ready turkey dancing and posing her way up the red carpet, her face almost bare of make-up, just a touch of silver around the eyes, a dark purple lipstick highlighting her mouth, her hair brushed out in a natural afro.

‘She could be your mom,’ said someone behind Isabelle, tapping her on the shoulder.

She could be your mom . . . She couldn’t wait to tell Will that one.

Why isn’t he here? He should be here. He got us here.

‘Mrs Fairbrother.’

‘Miss, actually, but . . . Yes.’