‘I don’t need help, cheers,’ she said, wedging a pillow barrier between them.

How many times did Meagan have to tell him, she didn’t need assistance and certainly not from her ‘friend with benefits’. As with everything else, she would figure it out – somehow. She sighed wearily, as she leafed through a ceiling tile brochure. Three months back and Meagan had been delighted to sign the lease for her new West End office. After seven years of running her comedy talent agency from rented desks and her mum’s garage, it finally had a place to call home. In truth, she knew an agent didn’t need Soho premises. Nowadays, getting bookings for her comedians was all done via email. If she’d been willing to look outside of Central London, she could have acquired an office twice the size at half the price but what was exclusive and swish about that? Meagan was all about the look, and what a fabulous look a W1 postcode was. After months of searching she’d found the killer spot, sixty square metres of unloved office space at the back of a Soho Square building.

Now all Meagan had to do was refurb it to her exacting standards. And there was no way she would hand that task over to anyone else no matter how many times Jemima bleated ‘hire a project manager’. Meagan could handle this on her own. That’s what she did – handle things. And anyway, this job was just cosmetic. She was basically giving her office a boob job.

‘Shall I get the papers?’ Todd said propping himself up.

‘You want me to change your litter tray?’ said Meagan.

‘Only if you need me to top up your saucer of milk.’ Todd grinned, his hand snaking towards her under the duvet.

‘Top bants, Toddy, but I have to get this right. It has to say Meagan Leslie. Big, ballsy, brassy. Like, go big or go home,’ she said, dumping his hand back on his side of the bed.

The truth was, Meagan would have liked nothing more than to ride him like a ten-speed racer but she had to concentrate. Three months on and her refurb was not going to plan. She’d spent hours chasing suppliers and battling contractors, all while working off a desk made out of lever arch files. But she had to be strong. If she panicked as mere mortals would, she’d end up drafting in a stranger who would inflict all kinds of hotel-lobby awfulness on her and that would not do. When an act walked through her door, she wanted them practically licking her Louboutins desperate for her to represent them. She wanted them to believe only she could win them that career-defining, star-making TV panel show slot. She wanted them to leave her office convinced that Meagan Leslie and Partners was a top-flight agency and not the one-woman band it actually was. Of course, there were no partners. She didn’t need randoms screwing things up. Meagan had learned the hard way that the net result of letting people in was Bruce-Willis-in-Space levels of disaster. It left you exposed and, after Parker, Meagan was never going to let herself feel like that again.