She let herself out into the pouring rain, waving her hand as a taxi loomed out of the torrent. There was a party in Chelsea that she had been invited to, and she paid the cab driver and pushed open the front door. Upstairs there was loud music and laughter and people lolled on the staircase, smoking grass and hash, with glasses of champagne and wine and vodka in their hands. On the first-floor landing she stepped across a couple whose limbs were tangled together in a twist of half-removed clothing and bare flesh. Within moments she was in the midst of the crowd, sinking her first drink and holding out her glass for a refill. Several couples were dancing, swinging, wildly spaced, limbs flailing. Others were locked together and moving to some link they had spun only for themselves. Someone grabbed her arm and she found that she was dancing with Tom Bartlett. She flung herself into the mêlée, turning and spinning and bending her legs so that she was soon twisting her body inches from the floor, leaning back to project her pelvis from side to side, her arms spread out like wings as she swayed with sinuous motion. People were calling her name and hooting encouragement as she strove to keep her balance, using every muscle she had, rising with slow grace to an upright position. There was applause as she reclaimed her drink and took a deep drag on a proffered joint.

‘You’re in high good form, whatever way you’d like to take that.’ Tom led her away from the centre of the room and stood looking at her with a cryptic expression. ‘How was the afternoon?’

‘Bloody awful. Dull clothes, awful old hag fussing over everything. I must have changed those horrible outfits fifty times.’

‘I’ve got something for you that’s rather more interesting. It’s an advertising thing for a new line of jewellery. Ethnic-looking stuff. They’re going to shoot it in Morocco. And the offer of a big magazine interview. Come in tomorrow morning.’ He wheeled away, leaving her alone in the midst of the noise and swirl of the room.