As soon as she heard the street door closing, Isabelle chopped out a fat line on the cutting table.

She’d got away with it, or so it seemed. The poison had been administered; now she just had to wait for it to work. Rivelli was in Italy for Christmas – the real, geographical Italy, not one of those psychological provinces of his – with Janet and his son, putting on a show of unity for the family, hoping that a return to normality would persuade Janet to forgive him. He’d left an expensive present for Victoria, and told her that things would be better in the New Year. Victoria said she hoped so too – and prayed with all her heart that Janet would keep the divorce alive. But Rivelli had swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Whatever happened next was Not Her Fault.

Cissé had served their purpose, and could flourish or perish, it didn’t matter to Victoria. Supposing, just supposing they recovered from the notoriety of the dragon dress fiasco, and became a force to be reckoned with at London Fashion Week, she would keep on their good side. Isabelle was easily talked round, and Will – well, Will was a gay man, and she could wrap gay men round her little finger. She’d keep them sweet; they might be useful in the future.

With Massimo out of town, Victoria occupied herself with lunches and launches, shopping and spa, and, it being December, endless parties. All the buyers and agents, the PR agencies, the magazines and even the more successful designers, had a Christmas party, and Victoria was invited to them all. Weeks passed in a tsunami of champagne and a blizzard of cocaine, where breakfast, lunch and dinner could, if you planned it right, consist entirely of canapés. In between times Victoria slept, went to Pilates, and took the occasional lover ; there was no shortage of waiters or couriers or models to be snapped up at this time of year. In a designer dress, a good pair of shoes, with coke in your handbag and a clutch of invitations to the best parties in town, Victoria would never be short of company.

Adele could read her like a book, damn her.

‘So, darling, you have your Christmas holiday,’ said Adele, tasting the first drink of the day over brunch at Century. ‘I hope that Santa is bringing you lots of nice presents.’

‘I can’t complain. My stocking is quite stuffed.’ Just a few hours ago, Victoria had been enjoying the dual attentions of a pair of athletic young waiters who, for reasons known only to the party planners, had been serving drinks dressed as football players. This had put Victoria in mind of the popular sport of spitroasting.

‘You are a greedy girl, Victoria. You want too much.’

‘Just a salad for me,’ said Victoria to the hovering waiter, who seemed to be looking straight down her cleavage. ‘I’m watching my figure.’