‘The bitch.’

‘Well,’ said Will, the violet chiffon in one hand, a hairdryer in the other. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Wha . . . Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.’

‘You’ve done it a thousand times in rehearsals.’

‘I’m not a model. I’m a . . .’

‘Designer. I know. And you’re the best designer of our year. And this is your best piece. This little scrap of stuff is the thing that’s going to get you noticed. And there’s only one person who can wear it. You.’

‘But I’m the wrong colour. It was designed for Amelie. She’s white. She’s whiter than white. I, in case you hadn’t noticed it, am black.’

‘It had come to my attention.’ Will held the dress up against Isabelle’s face. ‘But you know what? I prefer it on you. Look in the mirror.’

He pushed her up to the dressing table, turned a light on her.

‘See what I mean? Brown and purple. Beautiful.’

‘I look like a bar of chocolate.’

‘And that’s a problem? Half the bitches in that audience would sell their souls for a taste of Dairy Milk.’

‘Oh, Christ . . .’

‘Come on, Is. You’ve got ten minutes.’

‘But my hair! My make-up!’

‘Leave it to me. Girls? You ready?’

There was a vague affirmative mumble.

‘Right, then. Take your clothes off. Sit down. Let Will work his magic.’

He attacked her hair, loosening it from its rough braids, working on it with a comb and a hairdryer until it stood out from Isabelle’s head in a huge, spherical halo. He put two huge crescents of black above her eyes, coloured her lips in deep plum, and dusted her with gold glitter – her forehead, her cheekbones, her neck, her chest.

‘Stand up.’

She stood, and he surveyed. ‘You’ll do. Here.’ He handed her the gown, kicked over a pair of jewelled stilettos. ‘Two minutes to go. Not bad. Now get dressed.’

She stepped into the gown, the pride of her collection, felt the chiffon landing on her like cobwebs. Will zipped her up and she slipped on the shoes.

‘Jesus.’

She stood before the mirror, her hands clasped in front of her legs, her shoulders high with tension.

‘We’re on.’

The music changed, the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA, she heard the words ‘Isabelle Cissé’, and the first of the models strode into the glare of the lights.

‘Hear them?’

There was applause, whistling even, as each new model went out.

‘You’re going out there a nobody, kid, and coming back a star.’

The last two models were waiting to go, bracing themselves, standing tall, smoothing their gowns. Will put his arms around Isabelle’s waist, his hands on her backside, pulling her towards him, kissing her on the neck.

‘For luck,’ he said, but she could feel he was hard inside his pants.

‘Hang on a second,’ she said, breaking away. ‘I thought you were gay.’

‘So did I.’

She was on. She stepped on to the catwalk, blinded by light, deafened by music, puzzled by the fact that her best friend and fellow student, her assistant, her biggest supporter and, hopefully, business-partner-to-be – had just grabbed her arse, kissed her and pressed his erection against her leg.