Isabelle couldn’t look away.

‘Who is this person?’ said Janet. The dragon dress, that looked so good on Victoria, did not suit her at all. It fitted badly – had the measurements been wrongly given? Deliberately? Where it should have accentuated the bust, it seemed to sag. Where it should have skimmed the hips, it pinched and stretched. It did not fall properly; it hung like a carrier bag caught in a gorse bush.

‘This should be fun,’ said Maya Rodean, her mouth a tight little cat’s arse.

‘This is Victoria Crabtree,’ said Will, rushing in where angels wouldn’t be seen dead. ‘What a coincidence that you’re both wearing Cissé.’ He laughed, tried to make light of it, but even Will could not defuse this bomb.

‘Massimo?’

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘How does this person come to be wearing the same . . . garment . . . as me?’

‘I have absolutely no . . .’

‘I understood, when you suggested I wear it, that it was as a favour to some new discovery of yours. And I have worn it without comment, although’ – and now Janet Rivelli raised her voice – ‘it is badly designed, badly made, and badly finished.’

‘I hardly think that’s fair,’ said Will.

‘And now I see why it does not suit me,’ said Janet, warming to her theme. ‘It is a dress fit only for a prostitute.’

‘Good shot, Signora,’ said Maya, quite audibly.

Victoria recoiled as if slapped. She was still playing the little sparrow, her breast heaving lusciously, as if it would burst out of her décolletage at any moment. ‘But Massimo,’ she said, ‘you told me you’d be in Italy.’

Rivelli’s face was dark with anger. ‘This is clearly a misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I will speak with you later, Miss Crabtree.’

He took his wife’s elbow to escort her out of the party. All might yet have been well, but Janet, on turning to make a dignified exit, caught the hem of the dragon dress on her heel, tripped and ripped and only just managed to save herself from going arse over tit.

Victoria giggled.

‘Don’t you dare laugh at me!’ Janet was as white as a sheet, the blusher on her cheeks standing out like clown make-up.

Victoria put her hand to her mouth, but could not stifle her laughter, which broke out through her nose.

‘You little whore,’ spat Janet, and threw a nearly full glass of champagne in Victoria’s face. Victoria screamed as the wine bubbled over her cleavage, soaking into the satin and turning it an unpleasant algae colour. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, then drew back her arm as if to slap her rival’s face – and would have done so, perhaps, had not Will restrained her.

Maya Rodean jumped up and down on the spot, clapping her fingertips together. Her celebrity pals joined in. Janet Rivelli left on a wave of applause.

‘What the bloody hell did she think was going to happen?’ Isabelle’s voice was harsh from crying and shouting. The taxi rolled through the empty streets.