Imaginary Imogen is a woman who has the headspace for lust, a woman who can breathe out. Already, I feel different in my body, a little more luscious and feminine because I’m not so cramped and slumped.

Sexy, confident Imaginary Imogen has just kissed Carlotta, who has not then stormed off into the night screaming about her awful boyfriend. I’m drinking champagne, not Horrible Lukewarm Peach Drink. I’m a sex goddess, we’re all immortal, and a golden girl looks over and asks me if I’ll join her, and her husband…

Her partner, a ripped, six foot Adonis…

No, an Adonis sounds too hard and pointy. I want a little bit of yield.

Michelle points at her partner, who looks at me, appraisingly. His hair is long, and messy, a wavy lion’s mane of dark gold that almost falls to his shoulders, which are as broad as his eyes are narrow. He looks as though he fell out of the Viper Room in 1992. He has Big Cat Energy—he’s gazing at me as though he wants to eat me. ‘Good to meet you…I’m…’ Dave. NO. Keith. Imogen, what is wrong with you? Paul. That will do. ‘Will you join us?’ he asks. Michelle takes my left hand, and Paul my right. Everyone in the room is staring at us, lustfully and enviously. I feel a little nervous, a little self-conscious, but I follow Michelle’s lead. She moves slowly, confidently, as though she’s used to being admired. She’s putting on a show. Her body seems to glow under the collective gaze of the guests. The three of us find ourselves in a little anteroom. Michelle elegantly steps out of her white lace, and now she’s in nothing but her hold-up stockings. Her body is flawless. ‘Your turn,’ she says, lifting the black satin over my head before I can protest. And now this imaginary woman can see the weird mole by my belly button, the bits I missed when I was shaving, the…no! Confident! No wet toast!