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.

She arrived at the party early and talked to everyone, making sure they all registered how good she looked in the dragon dress. ‘It’s a Cissé original,’ she said, ‘hot off the sewing machine.’ She span round, showing off the way the skirt billowed up around her. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I love the colour so much.’

And when they see her – well, if that doesn’t precipitate a divorce, nothing will.

Dan was running out of small talk. Isabelle did not seem to be in a party mood, despite the fact that the Fashion Council was funding her debut show so generously – largely at his insistence. There were some on the board who thought that spending twenty thousand on an untried designer was throwing money away, but Dan had talked up the soundness of the business plan, the originality of the designs, and managed to secure funding that was usually reserved for designers in their fourth or fifth year.

He wasn’t expecting sycophancy, but a decent show of gratitude would have been nice. Instead, Isabelle was distracted, monosyllabic. He introduced her to his colleagues on the board, who made all the right noises, but she just smiled and said very little. Perhaps, thought Dan, she preferred to let her designs do the talking – but that wasn’t enough in an industry so based on networking. She looked marvellous, and Dan was sure that, somewhere beneath the sulky teenager exterior, there lurked a heart of pure gold. But it would take some mining.

Champagne glasses were being topped up, but this did nothing to improve Isabelle’s mood, and Dan realised with a shock that she had spent the entire evening watching her business partner like a hawk.

So that’s the way the land lies, is it?

‘Dan. There you are.’ It was Fiona Walker, Dan’s rather stern colleague. ‘You’re wanted.’

‘Ah, Fiona. Here’s Isabelle Cissé . . .’