As the music pounded, Casey gazed around the room. From Tosca’s seat, several rows back from the catwalk, Casey could see everything: the photographers crouching at the end of the stage, the PRs rushing around nervously, the emaciated models. The photographs from this show would be far more glamorous than any reality.

Mercutio’s creative director was nowhere to be seen. He would be backstage, giving a final check to every girl before they strutted out on the stage. Across the room, Casey could see Cressida, sat primly in the front row, between the editor of Vogue and a blogger whose followers ran into the millions.

There he was: just a few seats down from Cressida. Declan Bentley. Laughing broadly for the cameras, flanked by one of the most famous supermodels in the world and an Oscar-nominated starlet. The most powerful man in the room, and Casey watched as his hard blue eyes followed the models around the catwalk.

Models weren’t his type, she knew. There were many rumours about Declan Bentley’s tastes, some of them true.

Casey waited impatiently until the show was finished. As soon as the last model disappeared, she hurried down the steps towards Bentley. He was making his way backstage already, the crowd skipping out of his way as he marched along.

Ed saw her too late. She heard his voice – ‘Casey, for God’s sake’ – but she was already holding out her hand to Bentley.

‘Mr Bentley, I’m Casey Benedict.’

It took him less than a second to place her.

‘You wrote that fucking article about fucking Ethiopia.’

‘Yes.’ Mercutio was only one of the brands in Bentley’s international conglomerate. Two years ago, a whistleblower had approached Casey about appalling conditions in one of Bentley’s garment factories in Ethiopia. That factory provided clothes for Bentley’s high street label, Juniper, and Casey had been on the first plane out to Addis Ababa.

‘Didn’t really work out for you that one, did it?’ Bentley smiled nastily. ‘I shut that entire fucking factory down, and now the whole village is out of work.’

Bentley emphasised his Cockney accent as he was speaking. He had lived in Monaco for a decade, but still liked the image of bad boy made good. Today would be one of only ninety carefully allocated days a year he spent in the UK, his private jet flying into the country first thing in the morning and out again last thing at night. When in Britain, he lived in the Savoy: no private home for the taxman to link him to the UK.

‘I know.’

‘So what the fuck do you want? And how the hell did you get in here anyway?’

Out of the corner of her eye, Casey could see Cressida sidling away.

‘I need your help, Mr Bentley.’ For a second, Bentley was almost surprised, his face freezing into a near-laugh. Then he snapped back. ‘Tough. Fuck off.’

‘It’ll screw up Rhapso.’