What I got on tape instead that day were the remote responses of a shell-shocked young mother who was clearly finding balancing the demands of work with her family almost unbearable. Though she had successfully negotiated with Chloé to work from a studio in London to minimise the punishing commute to Paris that was eventually cited as her reason for leaving, our discussion was dominated by her frustrations over being regarded as inseparable from the brand and her feelings of being a commodity. “There is Chloé and there is me,” she emphasised. “I am not just Chloé.” Phoebe herself looked as winsome and dainty as she did in the pictures I had seen. But she was somehow less ebullient than the rambunctious party girl with the fake nails and the great dance moves that I had read about.