‘Perhaps you should try it without lettuce,’ said Isabelle, wishing with all her heart that Victoria would starve to death before their very eyes.

‘What a marvellous idea! But of course you don’t watch your weight, do you?’

‘I think I’ll try the lamb tagine,’ said Will, eager to change the subject. The waiter, an attractive young Berber boy who had cruised him the moment they walked in, was immediately by his side.

‘Lamb tagine for you, sir?’

‘Yes please, and I’ll have . . .’

‘Just my regular,’ interrupted Victoria. ‘Where’s Laurence today? He knows what I want. Tell them in the kitchen that Victoria is here.’ She thrust her menu at the waiter like a blade to the stomach.

‘And for you, ma’m’selle?’

‘Well, I’m hungry,’ said Isabelle, determined to get her money’s worth. ‘I’ll have the steak. Rare. With chips.’

By the time the food arrived, Will was feeling like an umpire at a particularly hostile cricket match. Victoria talked endlessly about Rivelli, and what he could do for them. Isabelle countered with acidic little remarks which were either unheard or ignored. Will could feel the goodwill evaporating on the fumes from their wine glasses.

They ploughed through three bottles. After the second, Will cared less that his two companions seemed to hate each other. After the third, he pushed back his empty plate, excused himself and went to the toilet, making sure that he caught the waiter’s eye on his way. Let them fight it out between themselves, he thought, looking forward to a dessert that was not on the menu.

Victoria and Isabelle ran out of conversation quickly. Without a man at the table, Victoria’s batteries seemed to go flat.

‘Thank you for lunch,’ said Isabelle, falling back on good manners as a last resort. ‘I’m very grateful.’

‘Oh no really, darling,’ said Victoria, bucking up, ‘it’s me that’s grateful. When I get you to sign with Rivelli, he’ll be very pleased with me.’

Isabelle sensed bitterness in Victoria’s voice, and hoped she wasn’t in for a drunken tirade. Where the hell was Will?

‘But enough about me.’

Thank God.

‘Tell me about you. Who you are, where you come from, all the juicy details about absolutely everything.’

‘Well, I’m twenty-two ...’

‘I forgive you.’

‘I grew up in London.’

‘You must have madly exotic parents.’

‘Not really. My dad’s an architect. He’s from Nigeria.’

‘Hence . . .’ Victoria gestured vaguely at Isabelle’s hair, face, body.

‘Yes. And my mother is a lawyer.’

‘Gosh. How very professional you all are. And how useful! Daddy can design your Paris showroom, and Mummy can take care of all the contracts and so on.’

‘She’s not really that sort of lawyer. She specialises in divorce.’

Victoria opened her mouth to speak, registered the word divorce and abruptly shut it again. For a moment, she drew patterns in the condensation on the side of the wine bottle.

‘A divorce lawyer, you say?’

‘Yes. One of the best, or so she tells me.’