‘No, you’re right. But maybe I can save myself, Alex.’

I turned and walked out.

* * *

I arrived at the Dorchester only slightly late, only slightly drunk, unbuttoning my jacket in the clammy night, dying for another drink now to anaesthetise the pain. Sam and Joseph were waiting in the foyer, hands in suit pockets, both looking rather overwhelmed as bright young things air-kissed and hugged all around them.

‘Come on.’ I indicated the ballroom with my head, suddenly feeling like a Roman general at the Coliseum. Like little lambs, I led those boys to the lions.

Renee was already seated at our table in a hideous gold creation circa 1971, her gnarly hand proprietorial on the arm of a young black guy I vaguely recognised from some music show. I was sure she must have bribed him to accompany her.

‘Hello, I’m Maggie. Drink?’ I grabbed the bottle of Merlot from the middle of the table and waved it so some splashed down my arm. ‘Whoops!’

‘Johnson.’ He reached out a hand to shake mine; he had a nice smile and silver hoops in his ears. ‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks.’

Renee simpered at Johnson, who was still grinning at me. Renee’s simper turned to stone. Gently, Sam took the bottle.

‘Allow me.’

Sam looked very handsome in his tuxedo and much less gawky than normal – if terribly young – his nose still peeling a little from his deep tan, his hair on end, friendship bands peeping from his pristine white cuff. I smiled at him benevolently. I knew I couldn’t teach Joseph anything – he was already arguing with Johnson about the state of the Tory party today, for God’s sake (not Fascist enough for him, probably) – but Sam, well, he might just be the hope of British television. I patted his hand.

‘I’m just going to the loo.’ He flushed beneath his tan and loped off across the chattering room.

‘Bit young for you, Maggie, babes,’ Renee hissed.

‘He’s not for me, Renee, at all. And anyway, I could say the same, couldn’t I, babes.’ I looked pointedly at Johnson, my smile as glacial as I could manage in the hot night. An executive producer accepted an award for a particularly car-crash edition of Wife Swap, his table whooping and looking inappropriately smug. I yawned widely. My mate Naz materialised from behind a pillar as Sam sat down again beside me.

‘Mag! I thought you’d be here.’ She kissed me.

‘How’s it going?’ I refilled my glass and offered her a slurp. ‘Meet Sam, and this is Joseph, and Johnson. And you know Renee, of course.’

‘Hiya all! If you fancy a quick livener, I’m on the Panorama table, behind the Big Brother lot,’ she muttered in my ear. ‘Those spoddy types are mad for it.’

A big ruddy-faced man appeared behind Sam. ‘All right, Sammy? Enjoying yourself?’