‘You handed your business over to me, whether you meant to or not, and you gave me the chance to show the fashion world what I could do. I brought Cissé back. I was Mr Fix-It. You know, there’s a lot of designers out there, far more famous and well established than you, whose business affairs are hopelessly messed up. They need me, and now, thanks to you, they know they need me. I’m somewhat in demand.’

‘Well. I’m pleased.’

‘So I’m going to rent some office space across the square, and see if I can put Fiona Walker out of business in a year.’

‘Great . . .’

‘But you don’t want to hear about my plans.’

Yes I do.

‘You came here to ask for advice. Presumably about Givenchy.’

‘You’ve heard, then.’

‘Of course. I probably knew before you did. So? What’s the plan?’

‘I don’t know whether to take it or not.’

‘That’s easy. You should take it. No question about it at all.’

‘But leaving London . . .’

‘London’s over, as far as fashion’s concerned. The bubble’s burst. Look around you – all those rising stars turning out the same tired streetwear they’ve been doing for the last five years.’

‘I didn’t know you noticed such things.’

‘I notice what sells.’ He unbuttoned his cuffs and turned them back. His forearms were thick, covered in golden hair. ‘Cissé will do well for a couple of years, then you’ll start to struggle. Someone else will take your place. No reflection on your work – but it’s not about the quality of the design any more. Not in England. It’s about whether your face fits. At the moment, yours does. You’re new, you’re young, you’re beautiful, you’ve got Mercy Williams and you’ve got a rock-star boyfriend.’

‘Had. Had a rock-star boyfriend.’

‘Well,’ said Dan, after the shortest of pauses, ‘the point is that you’re . . . well, you’re the . . . you know, you’re the . . .’ He stopped, looked up at her with a frown, looked down again. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘It’s over?’

‘With Mike? It never really began.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Right.’

Birds were singing in the square, ridiculously loud.

‘What was I saying?’

‘Givenchy. Paris.’

‘Yes. Absolutely. It’s the chance of a lifetime. They won’t ask you again. You should definitely go.’

‘Mmm.’

‘And, you know, maybe if things go well for me over here, I might be looking after some of your stuff in years to come. How about that? That would be weird, wouldn’t it? If I got the Givenchy account.’

‘Yeah,’ said Isabelle, who wanted to cry. ‘Weird.’