‘Quite so, quite so.’ She looked Isabelle up and down as if she was wearing a bin liner. ‘Nice to see you, dear.’

Dear?

Fiona dragged Dan away, leaving Isabelle alone. The party was a disaster. She hated being there, she hated these people, she hated the fact that they were going to talk loudly while her designs were being shown on the catwalk, that they were only interested in money and status and publicity and not really interested in beauty at all . . .

Her miserable little reverie was interrupted by a commotion across the room. There was a shriek and a gasp. Every head in the room turned towards the eye of the storm, where a space had cleared around two women dressed identically in green.

In Cissé.

Victoria, her cheeks burning, her eyes wide and filling with tears.

An older woman with brown hair and pearl earrings.

And between them, a handsome man in a sharp Italian suit . . .

Oh Christ. Rivelli.

‘My dear,’ whispered Maya Rodean in Isabelle’s ear, ‘you’ve made a bit of a boo-boo.’

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.’