‘Well,’ said Will, ‘I’m going to work the room, as they say. I’ll leave you two young people together.’

He strode off, an irritating grin on his face, and was absorbed by Maya Rodean’s entourage. The bitch is trying to poach him, thought Isabelle, frowning.

‘So, Isabelle,’ said Dan, still goggling at her.

‘Looks like a lovely party.’

‘You’re the loveliest thing at it.’

‘Oh, come on. I bet you say that to all the designers.’

‘Not at all. I don’t really do all that fashion stuff.’

‘I thought you were on the board.’

‘I am. Chair of it, in fact. But they don’t want me for my fashion sense, that’s for sure. I’m the token bean-counter.’

‘Oh.’ Isabelle felt crestfallen. ‘So it wasn’t my wonderful designs that got us the award. It was Will’s brilliant business plan.’

‘The Fashion Council doesn’t give grants to business plans,’ said Dan. ‘They think you’re the bee’s knees. They were raving over your stuff.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘I know when something looks good.’ He smiled; Isabelle always had the impression that he was, somehow, taking the piss out of the whole lot of them.

‘Well, thank you,’ said Isabelle. ‘Now, introduce me to some of those people who think I’m the bee’s knees.’ She scanned the room in search of Will, and couldn’t find him. ‘I could do with an ego boost.’

The whole strategy was ridiculous in some ways – and yet what better weapon to use against Rivelli’s wife than couture? If Victoria could turn up unexpectedly at a party where Janet would be present, wearing the same dress, that might provide the spark that ignited the tinder of their long-dead marriage and burn the whole rotten edifice to the ground. And then Victoria, like a better-dressed Jane Eyre, would nurse her scorched Rochester back to health and happiness.

There were risks, of course, but Victoria was not risk averse. First of all, she was only guessing that Janet would wear the Cissé dress to the party – but she knew how Rivelli’s mind worked, and if he was really keen to snare one of the two stars of the show, he would dress his wife either in Maya Rodean or in Cissé. It was his way of expressing interest. And if Maya really was going straight to Versace, then there was nothing for Rivelli there.

Secondly, Victoria’s presence at the party would anger Rivelli – it was always understood that she would not attend any function where he was bringing his wife. Fashion Council parties were usually off limits, unless the Mrs was out of the country, and Victoria was usually happy to comply; Massimo was always generous with the gifts afterwards.

But the time had come for action. Victoria prepared the ground carefully, establishing her ‘innocence’ well in advance. She’d asked Rivelli for a date on the night of the party, and was told that he’d be in Italy – accepted code for being unavailable. Italy, to Rivelli, was more a state of mind than a state in Europe. It could be anywhere he was required to be a good married Catholic. There were large parts of Surrey, and several restaurants in London, which Rivelli counted as ‘Italy’. But this time, Victoria decided to take him at his word, and to accept the invitation. If challenged, she was there as Isabelle and Will’s guest, scouting new talent, working tirelessly for Rivelli – certainly not trying to make trouble. She thought the boss was out of town. She practised her look of surprise and dismay. If she could squeeze out a few tears as well, the effect would be stunning.