Louise is bent over a plate, doing something fiddly with a toothpick. ‘May I grab a glass?’ I ask, opening up cupboard doors and looking for glasses before she replies. After the chair affair, I am heirloom wary. I don’t dare to touch the heavy, crystal flutes—presumably they were a wedding gift to Louise’s grandmother from Princess Margaret or Genghis Khan or someone. I shall have to drink from the novelty goblet emblazoned with the legend ‘So many shoes, so little time’. Still, you can probably get a whole bottle in there.

I need all of the Dutch courage that I can get my hands on before I return to that room. To be honest, I’d really like some Russian courage, or Mexican courage, but I can hardly start demanding shots while Louise prepares an afternoon tea. Louise is talking at me, and I’m drifting in and out. ‘I was up at 5 a.m., it’s not even a rough puff, it’s proper puff pastry. I don’t know why I bother. Plum never eats after midday, Buffy is doing some sort of intuitive fast and Amelia claims to be doing plant based paleo although…’ Louise lowers her voice. ‘Muffy claims that she saw a KFC bag in her glove compartment.’

I drain my glass and refill it. I’m feeling slightly more cheerful. ‘Fuck them! We’ll eat them, they will be delicious! The most important thing is that we get a great picture for Instagram.’ I am very proud of myself for remembering this.

Louise produces an eau de Nil cake stand, some eerily convincing artificial peonies, and a ring light. I help. Which means that I must stand on a kitchen chair, light in one hand, and glass in the other, drinking and hovering until Louise has taken seventy-four different photographs, and found one to be acceptable. ‘Let me give you a hand,’ she offers, as I sway slightly unsteadily. Oh, there’s the floor.

The millefeuille are a work of art. Somehow Louise has etched the icing on the top to look like a water scene in a Watteau painting, albeit rendered in chocolate and vanilla. We form a two person procession, and I concentrate very hard on holding the tray, walking in a straight line and not spilling any alcohol.

We enter, and Plum leads the sneering. ‘Oh, cute! Another one of Lou’s little DIY projects! I’m sure they’re quaking in their boots at Patisserie Valerie! No, not for me.’ Only the quieter blonde takes a cake. She holds it in her palm and stares at it balefully, as if she is reluctantly taking part in a TV segment where guests have to overcome their fear of baked goods in front of a live studio audience. I’ve seen people look at poisonous spiders with more enthusiasm.

‘I wonder how many calories are in a tarantula?’