Praying the alcohol will soon work its magic, I decide to seize the initiative. As huskily as I can manage, I murmur ‘Well, why don’t we…make out a little, and I’m sure he’ll come running over as soon as he sees what you’re doing.’ I seize the mettle. I’m a little taller than ‘Carlotta’, even though she has a Rockstud advantage, so I take her into my arms. My right hand is chilly from clutching my drink, and I’m worried that she’ll wince at the sensation on her bare back. But unexpectedly, Carlotta yields. Her lips are on mine, soft, soft, soft. She’s wearing, I think, Angel by Thierry Mugler—a perfume that I’ve tried, and makes me smell like one of those special Yankee Candle fresheners you get for your car. But Carlotta smells of honey, vanilla, treacle—sexy cake.

She leans back a little, pulling me towards her, and I’m into it all—her scent, her soft skin. I can feel my nipples hardening against the silky fabric of her dress. Suddenly she pulls away and looks back at the three men. They are still laughing, matily. They’ve even acquired pints! Where did they get pints from? How come they don’t have to put up with the revolting peach drink?

Even though the room is barely lit, I can see the storm clouds gathering across her face. She flings her arms to her sides and shrieks, in her Mickey Mouse voice, ‘FUCK HIM. Fuck you, Matt!’ She looks around wildly and sees my glass on the floor, which has maybe an inch of liquid left in it. She moves to grab it, and, knowing what’s coming, I mutter ‘Not that. Take his pint.’

She marches into the middle of the cluster of men, squaring up to the paler, bespectacled ginger one. So that’s Matt. ‘Oh, sausage, what’s wrong? Come and meet the chaps! Peter was at college with…’ We will never know. Carlotta/Sausage has grasped Matt’s glass and upended it all over his head. ‘And just so you know,’ she squeals, sounding like air escaping from a balloon, ‘I never. Came. Once. And last Christmas I got so bored that I fucked your uncle in the cellar! I’m going home. Alone!’

Turning to me, she adopts the Church Tombola register. ‘Imogen, it was nice to meet you,’ she says loudly, and flounces out, which is a challenge for the spike heels.

The room has fallen silent. Worryingly, I notice that Vizzini is eyeing me with interest. He nudges his fabulous girlfriend, grazing her thigh. She looks me up and down, sighs, and walks up to me.