‘Such passion, darling.’ Charlie smirked. ‘That’s what I love about you. That’s why you’ve got to do this programme. Sit down, there’s a good girl.’

‘Charlie, I can’t do it. It’s utter crap. You know that.’

‘Just this once.’ His eyes were wolf-like now, slits behind the cloud of sweet and sickening smoke. ‘You still owe me.’

‘But it won’t be just this once. And I did the trauma show because I owed you.’

‘You did the trauma show because it gave you closure, darling. Remember?’

‘Did I?’ I gazed at him.

‘Absolutely. It was your idea to do it, my darling.’

‘Was it?’ Why did my brain ache so much every time I grappled with memories of recent events?

‘And you have my promise.’

‘I already had your promise, I’m sure.’ I glared at him.

‘Please do it, Maggie.’ He stopped smiling and checked his vulgar watch. ‘Or maybe we should talk about the show you really don’t want to do.’

I went limp with misery. ‘You can’t do this, Charlie.’

‘Can’t do what, darling? I’m just giving your career a little helping-hand. God knows you need it after your most recent fuck-up. Work with me, Maggie.’

‘You’re playing games,’ I whispered miserably.

His face was closing down. I tried a different tack, fighting to keep my voice level. ‘Look, I know I did something stupid’ (I just wished I could remember exactly what it was) ‘but it was only the one mistake, wasn’t it? You know you can rely on me.’

‘Perhaps I could – once.’ Charlie studied the end of his cigar intently. ‘But you let me down so badly.’

We gazed at one another, the memories I’d blotted out shifting slightly in the sands of time, reshaping, struggling to the surface. I could feel the anger driving through my bones. ‘But I’ve been waiting all this time for the True Lives docs –’

But Charlie had already switched off.

‘You know, you’re quite beautiful when you’re cross,’ he mused. ‘Though that mop needs a thoroughly good cut. Why don’t you get it seen to?’ His mobile rang. ‘John Frieda’s not bad.’ He stubbed out the cigar and picked something out of a back tooth, snapping open the phone.

Before I could respond, an obsequious waiter had ushered him to the landing where it wasn’t quite so hallowed: media-whores milling, fat-cats in suits who spoke too loudly and under-dressed girls who simpered, fingers in ears against all the other loud and self-important chat.

Numbly I stared at Broadcast. I was sure Renee’s eye-bags had been doctored. Then Charlie was back, swinging his cashmere camel coat from the back of the chair, draping it over his shoulders like he was in The bloody Godfather. Well. He was a bloody hood, for all his supposed charm.