In the hierarchy of celebrity, there is one group of people constantly referred to with a casual, first-name intimacy. The ‘I don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day’ brigade, the supermodels. Linda and Naomi, Christy and Kate. It’s not that we know anything about them as individuals, nor that they seem any more approachable than any other kind of late twentieth century celebrity. It’s the brand-name simplicity of their fame , the instantly recognisable qualities they incarnate. Recognisable at a glance, they are trademarks, bestowing their signature style on garments, products, publications, and boyfriends.

Lee Tulloch’s new novel, Wraith, is set in this world of expensive, fleeting hypervisibility. The title character is Berenger, a wildly successful young model known in the trade as The Wraith. At fifteen, we are told, she caused a sensation on the couture runways of Paris, replacing the previous modelling phenomenon, a fragile and forlorn creature known as The Waif. The New York Times noted of Berenger that ‘fashion spectators can’t get enough of her, the way she rambles down the runway taking three times as long as any other model and stops, dazed, in front of the photographers, while the other models pile up behind her’. Designer Karl Lagerfeld praised her ‘very fresh look … Not this victim look at all. Very romantic, I would say. And a bit scary, you know, like she should be locked up in a mental asylum. It’s very dangerous, very modern.’