There followed an hour of polite-if-rather-dazed listening to Naz’s friends from one of the big channels. They were all wired, admiring themselves in the mirrored walls with the complete assurance that they had never looked better, slimmer or taller than right now. Frantically they jostled for air-time, each absolutely convinced that what they had to say was far more fascinating than the next person’s offering. I stifled a yawn. The only thing more boring than taking coke was listening to people bang on about it.

‘Let me talk,’ one heavy girl with a thick black fringe kept insisting, scowling if anyone interrupted her. I felt like the needle in the middle of a badly tuned radio, voices vying for attention. ‘No, no, listen,’ the girl was saying now. I realised hazily that she was talking to me. ‘Naz told me you’re doing the Renee Owens show. I don’t know how you can work on that rubbish, I really don’t. It’s so bloody rigged.’

‘Rigged?’ I really couldn’t be bothered to defend myself. ‘And what do you do?’

‘I’m series producing this year’s X Factor,’ she announced proudly. ‘It’s a corker – beating Strictly hands down.’

‘What, and X Factor’s all about the talent?’ Naz scoffed. ‘Come on, Nat! Pull the other one.’

‘It is based on talent!’ Natalie was outraged. ‘Absolutely. And, God, Simon’s such a scream to work with.’

‘Whose talent?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Sharon Osbourne’s? You’re shoving the walking wounded straight into the cannon’s mouth.’

‘We only –’

I zoned out. The couple next to me couldn’t keep their hands off one another; the bloke kept thrusting his hand down the back of her jeans. Mournfully I thought of Alex and looked away.

‘You do look fab, Maggie – just like a Christmas present,’ Naz said kindly. ‘Someone’s bound to tear you open soon!’ Only her streaming nose rather ruined the sentiment. As her boyfriend snaked a lascivious arm around her, I fled to join Bel on the dance floor.

She was extremely drunk. After some rather terrifying disco-squats she ricocheted round the dancers surrounding her, finally cannoning into me so that I fell against a group standing on the edge of the dance floor. An arm shot out to steady me.

‘Sorry.’ I staggered in the heels I wasn’t used to, my bad foot sore again where I’d awkwardly righted myself. ‘Ouch.’

‘Do you want to sit down for a second?’ The dark-haired man who’d just caught me led me to a seat tucked in the corner, where I plonked myself down inelegantly and slid my shoe off. ‘Oh God, that hurts.’ I rubbed my toes. ‘Thanks for saving me.’

‘No problem.’ He offered me a hand. ‘Sebastian Rae. Seb.’