Afterwards, when she came back from the loo, there was a box on the bed that had not been there before. She squealed, rushed to open it, and from the rustling tissue paper inside pulled a brand new evening dress by Alexander McQueen, the lightest blue silk with a subtle feather print, the whole thing weighing just a few ounces.

She stepped into it, felt the silk against her breasts and hips, where it skimmed and clung. She would need no bra, perhaps not even underwear. She knew how much Massimo liked that . . .

She fixed her hair in a knot at the back of her head, and clipped in an eighteen-inch extension that cascaded down her back. A few deft touches around the eyes and lips, a quick spritz of her favourite summer scent – Gucci’s Envy – and she was ready for whatever the night might bring.

‘Isabelle!’

‘What?’

‘Where the fuck is she?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Well if she doesn’t turn up . . .’

‘I know. I KNOW! We’re fucked.’

‘So where is she?’

‘Stop asking me questions I can’t answer and hand me that scarf.’

Isabelle grabbed a huge silk square from Will’s hand, twisted it round the model’s head, tied it in a loose bow. ‘Right, you’ll do. Next!’

The model joined four others in a corner of the cramped backstage area. The air was thick with hairspray, deodorant and steam from the iron. Isabelle could barely make herself heard above the unnecessarily loud pre-show DJ set. She had ten models to prep, ten gowns to show, only one assistant in the shape of Will, an audience of tutors, friends, fellow students, journalists, graduates and designers waiting to judge her – and her number one model, her star attraction, who had promised promised promised to take her graduate collection off the catwalk and into the headlines, had not turned up.

‘You’ll have to go on.’

‘What?’

‘You . . . Oh for Christ’s sake, what’s this?’ Will held up a dress that had a huge, dark brown cigarette burn on the front. ‘Who’s been smoking?’

The models shrugged and looked gormless. They had come as a job lot from one of the lesser agencies; it was all Isabelle could afford. At least they were professionals – most of her peers were relying on their thin friends, but Isabelle had managed, after several heated conversations with her parents, to scrape together the budget for a proper show.

‘It’s fucking ruined.’ Will threw the dress on to a chair.

‘Give it here. Get that lot moving, please.’ She pointed towards the remaining models, who were variously texting, gossiping or staring vacantly into space.

Isabelle picked up the ruined dress, and held it up to the light. The burn was big, about the size of a five-pence piece, right at the front, an inch above the hem.

‘You.’ She pointed at one of the models, a petite Oriental girl.

‘It wasn’t me. I don’t . . .’