Clothes wise, I try and reject a pile of Primark party dresses before deciding to play it safe—black slip dress, black bra, black high waisted knickers, black hold-ups, black coat—and I Uber straight from The Know offices to a mews building tucked a few streets behind Berkeley Square. I’m expecting a burly bouncer, but I see two women clutching clipboards. Like me, they are both wearing long black coats. Unlike me, they both have astonishingly shiny hair. The light from the street lamps really bounces off it—I feel less like I’m entering a den of iniquity, and more as though I’m in a football stadium, about to run onto the pitch. If you were an interior design expert, you’d get one of them to permanently stand at the end of your hall in order to make the space look bigger. I feel slightly intimidated. OK, really intimidated. But they’re much friendlier and more smiley than the average PR girl guarding the W1 doors. Giving them my name, I walk up the stairs to the cloakroom. My heart is pounding so hard that I think it’s creating electricity and conducting it through the underwire of my bra. Which, incidentally, might not be the best place for my cloakroom ticket this evening.

At first, the ‘party’ looks like any old posh press launch. Everyone is mingling in a huge, main room. The ceilings are high, the lighting is low (thankfully), soft and neon pink. The heating is set to Bikram Yoga. To my left, there’s a semi-circular mirrored bar, tucked into the corner. The barman is setting out trays of pink drinks in champagne flutes—at least, I think they’re pink, it might just be the lighting.

I’m transported straight back to a Year 9 disco. Everyone is older, and better dressed, but the vibe is the same. Nervous and giggly, with boys on the right and girls on the left. I’m terrified—but there is a generalised sense of terror in the air. Not Mad Max debauch, just edginess, and twitchiness. I need a drink before I can talk to anyone, and I ask the barman if it’s OK to take one from the tray. ‘I suppose,’ he sighs, huffily, as his quiff collapses and he blows it back into place. I was expecting ‘Help yourself!’ with a wink, a twinkle. The cocktail is just a little too warm. It tastes of sugary prosecco and—I struggle to place it for a moment, it is literally on the tip of my tongue—peach dish soap.