Ten minutes. I could grab a smoke. I stepped out of the car and lit up an American Spirit. I took a couple of deep drags, with all that Elise had just told me still rattling around my head. I found myself thinking: there’s no easy way of looking at this. Even though we are being endlessly told that, yes, there is a right and a wrong when it comes to this issue. But now I was coming to the conclusion: personal choice is the one and only truth here. And all women had the right to that choice.

The front door opened. Elise emerged with Jackie. Long black hair, denims, black sweatshirt, sneakers, sunglasses – all designer, all telling me: this woman was Hollywood. Someone high up in the business. Just as I could immediately sense her incredible distress. Twice walking toward my car she stopped and lowered her head and seemed to be on the verge of losing it. Elise had her arm around her, talking quietly to her as she moved her forward.

I hurriedly got back into the car and turned on KUSC. I waited. I stared straight ahead, worried: if that woman sensed me watching her in the middle of this very personal drama it could make things worse for her. The car door finally opened, the two women getting into the back seat.

‘You sure he can be trusted?’ she asked Elise.

‘I chose him because he can be absolutely trusted.’

‘Tell him to turn the music up.’

I was about to reach for the dial – but thought better of it. Because that would indicate that I was listening to her. So I waited for Elise to ask me:

‘Would you mind turning up the music please?’

I reached for the dial. I cranked it right up.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ the woman said. ‘Is he stupid?’

‘We will have none of that, Jackie.’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she whispered. I turned the music down. Elise asked the woman:

‘Now that that is settled … shall we head off and get this behind you?’

She nodded.

‘Off we go then,’ Elise said, letting me know I could put the car in gear and get us moving. I already had the destination. An address not far from the USC campus. Jackie started talking.

‘That fucker known as my husband called me last night from Buenos Aires. No doubt he’s got some woman stuck away there. Never marry an Argentinian.’

‘How long is he gone for?’

‘He had to go see his crazy mother in some rest home down there. And then he has this horrible sister who makes a killing as a plastic surgeon. More face jobs happen in Buenos Aires than –’

Elise cut her off.

‘So your husband won’t be back until …?’

‘At least Monday.’

‘That’s good. Six days. You should have recovered by then.’

‘You mean, my twat should have recovered so that pig can shove his stubby little thing into me and –’