‘I’d better get on, then.’ She heaved a deep sigh. Was it all going to be like this – the excitement of beginning gradually chipped away by the reality of work? By the responsibility of budgets? Having to be nice to people she despised? Watching as Will slipped away, tiring of her? She saw herself in five years’ time, putting together her umpteenth collection, too busy to have a social life, still holding a candle for a man she would never have, still struggling . . .

‘It is all worth it, isn’t it?’ she said, tying her hair back with an offcut of the poison-green satin.

Will was busy texting. ‘Hmmm? What?’

‘Nothing,’ said Isabelle. ‘Just talking to myself.’

On the same sunny morning in October, postmen in London and Surrey delivered two green silk evening dresses, identical in all but size, to Miss Victoria Crabtree and Mrs Janet Rivelli. Each was accompanied by a postcard bearing the Cissé logo on one side and the words ‘With best wishes, Isabelle Cissé’ on the other. Mrs Rivelli hung hers in the closet along with dozens of other free samples; she got two or three a week, and wore them as instructed by her husband, depending on whom he wished to encourage or impress. Victoria tried hers on straight away, dancing round the apartment like a little girl raiding her mother’s wardrobe.

It wasn’t a huge do – just drinks and canapés and DJs and a micro-fashion show to celebrate the latest round of Fashion Council grants. There was a Cissé dress ready for the catwalk – the gold tower dress, which Isabelle insisted went on a black model. There were about three hundred guests, about half of them designers and their friends, the rest the usual opinion-formers, freeloaders and hangers-on of the fashion industry. Most of them were there to see Maya Rodean. It wasn’t enough that she’d got the job with Versace – she must also hog the biggest of the Fashion Council payouts. The press were already shadowing her every move, turning up to her shows not to see the clothes, but to report on the famous friends who turned up. Maya was already dating rock stars – and there was always the chance that her father might turn up.

Dan Parker greeted Isabelle and Will at the door. He’d already phoned twice that day to make sure they were coming.

‘Ah, there you are! The star of the show!’ In a suit, he looked rather better than usual, thought Isabelle. Obviously his Fashion Council colleagues had vetoed the Blue Harbour casuals.

‘Hi Dan!’ Will unhooked his arm from Isabelle’s, extended his hand. ‘Great to have a chance to thank you in person. We really appreciate your support.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Dan, shaking Will’s hand but never taking his eyes from Isabelle. She was wearing one of her own ‘little creations’, as she called them – a dress knocked up from the end of a roll of violet chiffon, cleverly cut and exquisitely stitched, the front of the bodice an exotic garden of ruffles. It looked a million dollars. It looked very ‘Cissé’. It cost about five pounds.