Dan Parker faded into the crowd.

Where was Will? She hadn’t seen him for nearly half an hour. Supposing something had happened to him? She didn’t even know the address of the place where they were staying, she didn’t have a key, Will had the Eurostar tickets, she was stranded . . .

‘Ah, here she is!’ Familiar hands gripped her shoulders. ‘Isabelle! I want you to meet some people.’ Will’s eyes flashed a message – don’t ask questions, just be charming. She understood, and extended a hand to a handsome, grey-haired man in a beautifully cut dove-grey suit.

‘Massimo Rivelli, this is Isabelle Cissé. Isabelle, Massimo Rivelli.’

‘Piacere.’ He bowed slightly, took her hand as if he would kiss it.

‘Rivelli?’ said Isabelle, looking into twinkly blue eyes in a tanned face. ‘As in . . . well, as in Rivelli?’

Rivelli inclined his head.

‘And this,’ said Will, indicating a vampy-looking blonde in a Chanel suit, ‘is . . .’

‘Victoria Crabtree,’ she butted in, as if afraid that Will had already forgotten. ‘Pleased to meet you, Isabelle. I thought your graduation show was terrific.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Of course. I make a point of checking out the stars of Graduate Fashion Week.’ She nodded towards Rivelli. ‘He says I’m the best scout in London.’

‘She has an eye,’ said Rivelli, nodding and rubbing his chin.

‘And so when this young man told us that he was your business manager . . .’

Will waggled his eyebrows in a ‘don’t contradict me’ style.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Isabelle. ‘I had no idea I’d made such an impression.’

‘Never undersell yourself, young lady,’ said Rivelli, his perfect English accented with a curious mixture of Italian and American. ‘That’s the first lesson to learn. If you don’t stand up and tell the world that you’re the best, there’s plenty of others that will. Even when, perhaps, their talent is . . . What shall we say? Lesser.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Victoria, lowering her voice to a just-us-girls tone, ‘this place is packed with ’em. Talentless nobodies who cling on to the fringes of the fashion industry through family connections or God knows what else. You know who I’m talking about.’

‘Mmmm . . .’ said Isabelle, whose mother had instilled in her a habit of never bitching about people in public.

‘Not you, though. I can see the potential. When you’re ready, I want you to call me. Your . . . business manager has my card.’

‘Thanks. We will.’

‘Come on, Massimo,’ said Victoria, taking Rivelli’s arm in a proprietorial fashion, ‘we’ve got an hour before the helicopter picks us up. Let’s make it count.’

Victoria led him away.

‘God, Will, the Massimo Rivelli.’

‘The very same.’

‘You don’t think . . .’

‘Why not? He needs us just as much as we need him.’

‘But to have our clothes made by Rivelli . . . That’s like a dream.’

‘It’s a dream that’s just come a little bit closer to being reality. They like you. She’s seen your stuff.’