‘Absolutely delicious, thank you. And how’s your trout?’

‘A bit disappointing, to be honest.’

Christine sipped her wine. ‘Mmmm. I thought it might be.’

Chapter 6

‘Yes, hello. This is . . . er . . . Signora Rivelli’s personal assistant, calling from England.’

‘How can I help you, miss?’

‘I just wanted to check that you have madam’s correct measurements on file. Signora Rivelli thought the last few dresses were a little tight.’

‘Perhaps madam has put on . . .’

‘Certainly not,’ snapped Victoria, delighted to think that the rumour would be all over Milan within the hour: Janet Rivelli was porking out. ‘Madam takes great care of her figure. Now, if you would just check for me . . .’

It had been a punt, but it turned out to be a sound one. Of course Rivelli’s wife would get her dresses direct from her husband, the manufacturer. Of course someone, somewhere in the head office in Milan, would have her measurements on file.

‘Hello, Miss . . .’

A woman’s voice this time, with an American accent. She sounded young. Victoria experienced a pang of jealousy. Was this one of the attractive, ambitious ‘interns’ who bobbed along in Rivelli’s wake at fashion shows?

‘Ah, hello. Janet Rivelli’s PA here. Just need to check on . . .’

‘I have them right here.’ She sounded efficient, and eager to prove it. The girl rattled off the vital statistics, and Victoria scribbled. Ha! Her waist was narrower, her breasts bigger, than Janet’s. How could Massimo possibly stay with such a flat-chested, shapeless old bag?

‘Yes, that appears to be correct. There must have been some error in the tailoring.’ She had better not push this too far, or word would get back to Rivelli. ‘However, she is happy to overlook it on this occasion.’

She hung up before the girl could start asking questions. She had what she needed; no point in trying to cause more trouble, however great the temptation. Stage One of Operation Divorce was complete.

Stage Two necessitated a return visit to the Cissé studio in Hoxton, where Isabelle and Will were happily working away, she on designs, he on funding applications. She had mentioned Victoria’s strange request, and Will was taking his time to think it over. Two women, powerful and well connected, both wearing Cissé – that, surely, was too good an offer to turn down. An entrée to the very best Italian garment manufacturer in the world – not just as another pushy newcomer, but hand-picked by the women closest to him. And if it worked out as it should, then Rivelli would want them – might even take them under an exclusive licence. Then they would have the best tailoring possible, the standard to which all the big fashion houses aspired. They would have a label in their clothes – ‘Made in Italy by Rivelli’ – a guarantee of quality, and a sign that they had arrived. Instead of spending their time chasing pattern makers and cutters and seamstresses, they would hand the order books over to Rivelli and sit back, secure in the knowledge that the orders would be fulfilled to the highest standards. It was a step towards the red carpet. A big step.