‘Now, Imogen,’ says John, just as my eyes land on a crusty patch on his waistcoat. Please, be egg. ‘Imogen, we’ve been watching your career with, ah, great interest, we saw you with Chuck Whatsit on the TV, and we thought “girl’s a tonic!”’

Bradley chips in. ‘So, Dora Bainbridge called you a slut! She’s so outrageous, I love her. She’s hilarious,’ he says, snidely. He doesn’t sound as though he’s ever laughed in his life.

‘Um, did she actually call me a slut? I don’t think…’

‘We’re longing to hear more of your…erotic adventures,’ says John, wiping his palms on his thighs. ‘We’re hoping you could give us a little preview!’

I must pull this back. ‘Actually, I had a few ideas I’d love to explore with you.’ My notebook is also in the tote bag, but I can’t bend down and pull it out. My skirt has graduated to my nipples, and now it has my entire torso in its evil grip. Maybe if I sort of…kick the bag? Prodding it with toes, I get the straps caught in a stiletto heel.

‘OK, so ideas. I’d love to write about fragrances worn by pop culture icons. Ian Fleming wore Floris 89, and suggested that Bond did too, and when he made Alfie Michael Caine was wearing Guerlain Vetiver…’

John looks through me, smirking at Bradley. ‘Actually, darling, we’re much more interested in something along the lines of your recent efforts.’

Bradley opens a navy blue leather Smythson notebook. It brings me some pleasure to note that it appears to be monogrammed, and his initials, picked out in gold, are ‘BS’. He clears his throat. ‘Why Don’t You: A Guide to Morning Masturbation, by Imogen Mounce. Ladies, let’s be real. No one wants to get out of bed on a cold morning. So what if I told you there was a sure fire way to get yourself up, in every sense? We all deserve to go out into the world with a smile on our face. Let’s stop hitting the snooze button, and start hitting the other button…’ He looks straight at me. He does not deserve to have a smile on his face. His delivery is camp, and cruel. He isn’t even trying to conceal a sneer. However, John’s expression is even more upsetting. I think he’s openly leering at me, breathing through his mouth, rapidly and noisily. His neck—or the place where his neck should be—is all a-quiver, wobbling and undulating like the crowd at a music festival.

‘Go on,’ breathes John. ‘Imogen, do you really…do that first thing in the morning?’ Well, I used to. After this, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it ever again.