Fuck him! I hope he has nightmares about my crotch. Let him masturbate over that, if he wants to! I wish him lots of luck! Now I’m breathing in a ludicrous, laboured way, like a pervert in an alley, because I know that if I’m not careful I’ll start laughing and crying at the same time. As I pick my way along the corridor, I’m emitting bat-like squeaks, until I start giggling, and start roaring, and I’m weeping with hysterical relief. Poor, poor Bradley! Poor John, even! I can just imagine him turning up to the cover shoots while supermodels run for cover, locking themselves in the toilet and begging for mercy. I think about all of the film premieres that The Gentleman has sponsored over the years. I can picture John, so sweaty and excited that he’s in danger of sliding out of his seat, popcorn stuck to his moustache, while the space beside him remains empty, while A-list actresses call their managers and sob ‘Tell him I’ve had to leave because I have diarrhoea! Tell him I’ve gone to hospital with it.’

When I reach the top of the escalator, I pause. This is where the dream dies, really, isn’t it? Back down the moving staircase to real life, Harri’s moods, Louise’s freak-outs, too many late nights and not quite enough money. I really hoped that I’d come back down as someone who belonged, that being in this gilded world would allow me to shed my scalier self and discover something fresh and smooth beneath. I thought I just wanted a way of strengthening my position at The Know. Now, I’m forced to admit to myself that I wanted to be wanted. As a writer, not as a cheap laugh for a middle-aged man.

But then, I realise with shame, The Gentleman has always made me feel rejected and excluded—even more than any fashion magazine. I’ve been waiting for so long to be invited in that it never occurred to me that I might want to walk straight out again. Did I think John might validate me? Did I hope he’d make me feel like a supermodel? I’m pretty sure he makes the supermodels feel like shit. Does John feel like he belongs anywhere? Well, he hardly seems awash with self-awareness. But how lonely, desperate and mad do you need to be to summon a woman to your office just to get her to talk about her sex life, especially when you can read about it for free, on the internet? I wonder how much Bradley gets paid. Whatever they give him, it can’t be enough.