Stella sighed with relief. It had to be the newsreader. Her head was still so messed up after the weekend, the name hadn’t rung any bells, but she did now have a vague recollection of giving the woman her phone number.

‘Cool! Told you so,’ she said. ‘Good-looking?’

She was a tiny bit curious now: what kind of women were showing an interest in the newsreader, with the new information Stella had put on her profile?

‘Yes,’ Gréta said. ‘One of them in particular looks really lovely.’

‘That’s cool,’ Stella said. ‘I hope it all goes well for you.’

She was ready to end the call; she wanted to check her phone for the time, so she could decide whether to go round with the mop again – enough to show she was working – or to lie back down on the floor.

‘But … how do I go about this?’ Gréta asked, a note of desperation in her voice. 42

‘Just chat to her,’ Stella said. ‘Give it a week and then invite her out on a date at the weekend.’

‘But I have to go for a work dinner, it’s a sort of annual thing.’

‘Then invite her to go with you,’ Stella said. ‘Aren’t you famous? Anyone who bites on the princess idea I put in your profile will have to be up for dinner with stars from the telly.’

She ended the call abruptly, as her stomach was suddenly turning somersaults. She turned and vomited into the steel basin. Fuck this. She was never, ever, ever going to one of those fucking Anna parties again. She never failed to overindulge in everything on offer: too much to drink, too much grass and too many pills.

When she had stopped retching, she drank some water from the tap and almost threw up again as the water was sickeningly warm. The hot and cold pipes had to be touching each other.

Her phone told her that it was twelve-thirty, so now she could go for lunch. Something to eat would calm her stomach, but first she needed a smoke. A dose of nicotine would banish the trembling and the dizziness, and the almost overwhelming urge to smoke more grass. That was a yearning she would have to tough out, as she was broke until the end of the month.

The cold air on the balcony was refreshing, even though she was dressed in a polo shirt and the chill left her shivering; at least she wasn’t so drowsy.

‘Hæ,’ the new minister whispered as she stepped out onto the balcony at Stella’s side. ‘How are things?’

‘Hæ,’ Stella said, holding her lighter up to the minister’s cigarette.

‘What’s that?’ the minister asked as she drew down a lungful of smoke, one finger lightly touching the tattoo on Stella’s arm. Stella started at the touch, as if a jolt of electricity had passed through her body. There was clearly some of the weekend’s cocktail of drugs still in her system.