Carly is reassuringly normal. Cropped, coppery hair, jeans that I suspect used to be black, a plain polo neck and what appears to be a tool belt around her waist. ‘Follow me,’ she says, beckoning me through a doorway. ‘I believe it’s your first time with us—thanks so much for coming on. We’ve got some breakfast bits in the green room, I’ll take you through and then we’ll bring you into hair and makeup.’ Carly is walking fast, fast, fast, and I trot obediently behind her, eyeballing the contents of what appears to be a fabulous showbiz garage. Here a nine foot tall golden candlestick, there a lifesize—double lifesize?—cut-out of a hippo in a Hawaiian shirt, with a speech bubble coming out of its mouth that reads beach bonanza giveaway! I don’t know quite what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this lightly controlled chaos. Frantically trying to keep up with Carly, I round a corner and bump into a woman who looks vaguely familiar. ‘Sorry, love!’ she giggles. ‘Great trousers!’ Where do I know her from? Does she live near me? Was she at Fizz mag when I was interning? Oh! X Factor. She was a runner-up two or three years ago. I love her. And she loves my trousers! It’s going to be fine. Better than fine.

‘Here we are. Just grab a seat and I’ll get your release forms. Coffee? Anna, get Imogen a coffee,’ says Carly, to the air, hurrying off again. I sink into a big, bright purple sofa, and reach for the platter of croissants in front of me. When my mouth is full of delicious almond paste, a dusting of icing sugar covering my chin, like Homer Simpson’s beard, I make the mistake of looking up.

Dora Bainbridge is staring at me.

She’s much, much thinner in real life. It’s not fair, I think, before feeling a strong stab of feminist shame. That was not a body positive thought. I recognise her dress—a bottle green silk shirtwaister that I’ve seen in the window of LK Bennett—but sexy, stompy, possibly Prada boots are peeping out from under her hem, where her mumsy court shoes should be. How is her hair so bloody shiny? I could probably see my face reflected in it, croissant and all. And the weirdest, weirdest thing is that she’s smiling at me with genuine warmth. She’s getting to her feet and holding out her hand. She doesn’t just look friendly, but properly pleased to see me.