The inside of the car takes me by surprise. I don’t know anything about cars at all—I’m aware that Mercedes is a fancy brand, but I have no idea what makes the cars fancy. This is all leather—supple, pale leather, not thick, S&M pleather—with separate chairs and a wide, hollowed-out armrest that has been filled with tiny bottles of water. I find myself thinking of something Harri said the other day, that sat strangely with me. ‘The Girl isn’t scared of anything’. Sometimes I think I’m scared of everything, but maybe life is much less frightening for the people who can take this treatment for granted. This is what true luxury is—not hard and glossy, but soft and welcoming. It’s not supposed to shut you out, but usher you in. For the duration of this car ride, I’m allowed to believe that my comfort and safety matter.

Unlike The Girl, I’ve been feeling sick with fright for about nineteen hours. Yet, a strange calm is slowly descending on my body. Even though I’m convinced that I’m about to shame myself before the nation, a bit of me thinks that they wouldn’t bother to send a posh car if they really wanted to make a fool of me. Unless this is to lull me into a false sense of security.

Still, the journey through South London is eerily beautiful. As I watch the sky fade from ink to lilac, I notice some personal landmarks. Here, the pub where I bought a round to celebrate that crappy editorial assistant job and went over my overdraft limit for a month. There, the not-quite-hipsterish cafe where I went on that awful date with the guy from Hinge who kept showing me photos of his mum in a bikini. I want to wave at all of my old ghosts. It’s going to be OK, guys! I’m from the future. One day you’re going to get a great job and be on telly in some very expensive trousers!