But it was a big deal. This wasn’t another sociable dinner in a restaurant, a kiss goodnight and home alone. This time, Christine was inviting him into her house. She knew, or at least bloody well hoped, that she would end the evening breaking what had become an embarrassingly long sexual drought. And if she was going to break it with anyone, it had to be Joel. He was just so . . . fit. In every sense of the word. Physically fit. Sexually ‘fit’. And fit for her purposes – an attentive, appreciative and intelligent young man who had made it abundantly clear that he was available for her enjoyment.

She took a ladle of simmering stock and added it to the pan, stirring, stirring, counting the minutes. The rice started to turn soft and creamy.

Christine poured another glass of wine, and this one did not go into the risotto.

‘Don’t look now, but guess who’s just walked in with an entourage of about twenty?’

Isabelle peeped through the hangers on a rail of heavily beaded swatches; they clacked and rattled like curtains in a brothel. ‘Oh Christ, it’s bloody Maya Rodean.’

‘Pretend we haven’t seen her.’

But it was too late. Maya Rodean, resplendent in a sheer black Versace dress (it was well known that she was in talks about a job with Versace), black shades perched on top of her sleek blonde bob, the only touch of colour the impossibly thin heels of her Jil Sander shoes, in bright pink, walked towards them with her hands outstretched, as if she owned them.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she squawked, as if it was a delightful but incomprehensible surprise.

‘The same as you, I imagine,’ said Will.

‘I very much doubt that,’ said Maya, who had spent one whole term at college trying to persuade Will to be her unpaid PA.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ said Isabelle, whose enthusiasm was not to be dampened even by Maya Rodean’s flared nostrils. ‘All this beautiful stuff . . .’

‘That?’ Maya looked as if someone had just farted under her nose. ‘Oh . . . well, I suppose it has its charms. Bridal wear, perhaps . . .’ She flapped a hand in front of her face, as if to disperse a foul smell.

‘I’m looking for stuff for our first big collection,’ said Isabelle, oblivious to the daggers that Will was shooting at her. ‘I want to go for full-on evening wear. Great big fantasy fondant creations. The sort of dress that makes a woman feel . . . What’s the matter, Will?’

‘Nothing,’ said Will, with a look that said ‘Shut up now!’

‘Well I think that’s marvellous,’ said Maya, who might have been jealous as hell of Isabelle’s talent – but celebrity offspring don’t need talent. ‘I wish you all the luck in the world. Do send me an invitation to your . . .’

She snapped her fingers at a young man in a distressed white denim jacket, with the word MAYA spelt out in candy-red buttons on the back. He handed Will a card with a website address on it.