A couple of braying Sloanes pushed between us with great self-importance, followed by a Kate Moss look-alike in sunglasses and a skirt that barely covered her pants, her bare legs so cold they were a mottled red, hissing something about standing-room only into a mobile phone. I caught Seb’s eye and we both burst out laughing.

‘You know what,’ he murmured thoughtfully, his hand finding mine.

I shivered, with cold or excitement I wasn’t sure. ‘What?’

‘I hate these occasions.’ Now his fingers gently circled my wrist.

‘Do you?’ I asked shyly. His touch was lovely and warm on my cold skin.

‘Shall we go and get some dinner instead?’

‘But – don’t you want to see yourself up there on the silver screen? I don’t want to ruin your big moment.’

He let go of me, pushing his hair out of his eyes, staring into the distance for a moment. ‘I hate it really. It makes me very uncomfortable actually, watching myself.’ He looked at me. ‘I’d much rather talk to you instead.’

‘Oh!’ I felt a small bubble of pleasure form deep inside. ‘Okay. Well, it’s entirely up to you.’

‘Hopefully the car’s still there.’ He grabbed my hand impulsively and swung me down the stairs. ‘The driver was meant to wait. Do you fancy some Thai?’

Food was absolutely my thing. I loved eating; liked cooking even more. I could drum up a meal fit for a king from just a few ingredients and no recipe, a gift I was proud to have inherited from my mother. I collected cookery books; read them in bed for fun, treasured scrapbooks full of Gar’s old recipes for lamb casserole and Cornish fish-pie. My father had always said I should have cooked professionally; he thought I should have avoided the media entirely and concentrated on feeding bellies rather than brains. Feeding brains or rotting them was my current internal debate.