‘Definitely not,’ said Isabelle, wondering exactly what Will was sticking down his throat. At that moment, he emerged from the toilet, smirking.

‘Ah!’ said Victoria. ‘Talk of the devil. Now, what about a naughty little pud? Isabelle? Will?’

‘Not for me,’ said Will. ‘I couldn’t eat another thing.’

‘She’s a bloody nightmare,’ said Isabelle, stomping upstairs to the top deck of the bus. Will followed wearily, and rather drunkenly, after her.

‘She’s no worse than the rest of them. You have to get used to this.’

Isabelle threw herself into the back seat. ‘You mean I have to kiss her arse like you do? No thanks. I know where it’s been.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing.’ Isabelle crossed her arms, and started fishing her headphones out of her handbag.

‘You look like a sulky six-year-old. Now I see what your poor mother had to put up with.’

‘Leave my mother out of this!’

‘All right!’ Will held up his hands. ‘No need to shout. Christ. Chill out.’

‘Fuck off.’

They rode back to the studio in silence. The postman had been in their absence.

‘It’s from the Fashion Council.’

Their differences, real and imagined, were quickly forgotten.

‘You open it,’ said Isabelle. ‘I can’t. I feel sick.’

Will tore the envelope open. ‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘What?’

He paused, looked up from the letter, looked down again. ‘They’ve given us twenty thousand pounds.’

‘Twenty . . .’

‘Thousand . . .’

‘Quid. Oh my God.’

They embraced. Isabelle went to kiss Will on the mouth, but he moved his head aside.

‘You know who we have to thank for this, don’t you?’

‘If you say Victoria Crabtree, I’ll fucking brain you.’

‘No, my dear,’ said Will. ‘Your little boyfriend. Dan Parker.’

‘What?’

‘Chair of the awards committee. Or didn’t you know?’

‘He’s not my . . . Wow. That little nerdy one?’

‘I would have said the cute blond with the nice arse, but yes. Him.’

Isabelle nodded. ‘And what will twenty grand get us, in terms of production values?’

‘Oh, she’s businesslike now, all of a sudden. Bells and whistles, my dear. Bells and whistles.’

‘Ring a ding ding.’ Isabelle felt strangely deflated. The alcohol was wearing off, and the prospect of a properly budgeted show now seemed like a burden of responsibility, rather than a fantastic fantasy.

‘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 . . .