She put everything into the collection – all her dreams and frustrations, all her love for Will, because it was love by now, all her anger at her mother, her craving for approval, her loneliness, her fear that the whole thing might just go up in smoke. The dresses that emerged were extraordinary, surprising even Will – great explosions of colour and texture that somehow, when worn, managed to be chic, even severe. ‘It looks like a little girl’s dream of what a princess would wear to a fairy-tale ball,’ he said of one particularly extravagant pink satin confection, ‘tailored by Coco Chanel.’

‘You’re starting to sound like a publicist,’ said Isabelle.

‘Darling, when they get a look at this’ – he ran a hand over her bare shoulder, down the bodice of the dress, which she was modelling on an improvised catwalk – ‘they’re going to have to invent some new superlatives. Roll on February. They’ll be eating out of our hands. And speaking of eating, it’s nine o’clock. Don’t you think we ought to call it a day and get some dinner? My shout.’

‘No, you go ahead,’ said Isabelle, stepping out of the dress. In her white bra and panties she looked painfully thin, the ribs sticking out down her sides. ‘I’m going to carry on for a while.’

‘You must eat.’

‘I will! I do!’

‘It doesn’t look like it, from where I’m standing.’

Isabelle bundled herself into a fleece, a cast-off of her brother’s that came down to her knees. ‘I can’t help it if I lose weight. I always do when I’m working hard. Remember before graduation? I went down to a size four.’

‘You still had tits, as I recall. Where have they gone?’

Isabelle nearly said ‘Fat lot you care,’ but did not want to sound like a bitter fag hag. ‘They’re still in there somewhere,’ she said, trying to make light of the situation. ‘Now run along and leave me in peace. I want to get this finished tonight.’

‘Princess . . .’

‘What?’ She hoped he might want to stay tonight, sharing their little corner of Bohemia, as they had in Paris.

‘Are you . . .’ He wiped his nose and sniffed. ‘You know.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake.’ She busied herself with pinning a hem. ‘You’re as bad as my mother.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t bite my head off. I’m just concerned, that’s all.’

‘Well don’t be.’

There was little else to say. Will kissed her on the top of her head, which felt unusually hot, and muttered ‘Goodnight.’

‘I don’t have a . . .’

‘What?’

She was going to say ‘cocaine problem’, but it sounded ridiculous. ‘Nothing. I don’t have enough pins, that’s all. I’ll find them.’

‘Okay. Goodnight, Princess.’