‘Tell me that doesn’t give you a wide-on?’ shouts Mia. ‘Accessory of the season. The paps could make a killing with it. Up a skirt faster than a presidential hand.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Aperol Spritz?’ says Mia. ‘In October? Are you trying to shift some kind of paradigm?’

‘Nice hair!’ says Gemma.

I touch my hair. I wanted to look like a youth. A boy, even. I had to go and get it put right by a professional. I shuddered as the hairdresser gave me a head massage, cursing myself for wearing an un-padded bra, hoping she wouldn’t notice that my nipples had gone erect. It was the most aroused I’d felt in months, and I hated it. Still, I was relieved she didn’t speak English. It takes the pressure off when there’s a communication barrier.

‘Very short,’ says Mia. ‘We’ll need to get more byline pictures, but maybe we should wait until you stabilise. You keep changing … shape.’

I take comfort from this, in that she’s not going to fire me if she’s suggesting fresh byline photos. It’s like when she asked for a breakfast meeting and I turned up nervous and then she ordered eggs. I relaxed because there’s no way you fire someone over eggs. You do it over coffee. Or yoghurt, at a push.

Vivienne is drinking champagne. Vivienne only drinks champagne.

‘Good evening, all,’ I say, and find myself putting on a hint of a Yorkshire accent. Sometimes I put on my friends’ accents as a way of acquiring their special strengths in certain situations, like a superhero choosing from a set of skills.

‘Hardly,’ she replies. ‘There’s so many other things I’d rather be doing.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Faecal vomiting.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Apparently a really bad sign.’

I turn and try to make conversation with Gemma but it’s too loud and effortful. I crash around. A few years ago, at a party in Dalston, Kelly and I met a man with a taxi meter hung round his neck. He had adapted it to run off time not distance. He kept the meter running while he was talking so that everyone could see how much his time was worth. Kelly had a conversation with him (more of a row, really) worth £26.42. He was a web designer. We thought he was a twat. Now, here, I can see where he was coming from. I should have a sign across my forehead that reads: Sorry, Not In Service.

‘What’s your star sign?’ Gemma says.

Ah! Star signs. I can do this. If I concentrate. Let me totally get into my now. Although the other day someone asked me which Hogwarts house I was and I said ‘Blacksticks’ before I realised that’s a type of cheese.

‘I bet you’re something watery, aren’t you … like Pisces,’ says Gemma.

‘Scorpio.’

‘Apparently, Scorpios make the best journalists.’

‘Do they?’