I open my eyes. ‘But why does Dora do it? What’s the point of going on and being mean to everyone?’ She was so nice to me in the green room, I want to add, but talking is too difficult while Hope is going at me with a mascara brush. I can’t manage consonants.

‘Keeps her on telly, dunnit?! She’s a pantomime villain, like Chuck. She can spout any old bollocks—’scuse my language!—and as long as she’s prepared to be a bit of a cow, people will keep asking her back. There are a few people who love her for telling it like it is, and plenty who just love being horrified by her. But it’s all a win for her!’

Hope has been working hard. I’m no longer a grey, lashless thumb. I have cheekbones, a cupid’s bow, enormous eyes. This is how you’re supposed to use blusher! I don’t just look made up, I look like I’ve been getting nine hours of sleep, every night, for a decade.

‘Hope! WOW! Oh my goodness, thank you!’

‘Shhh, keep your face still, lovey, just going to do a bit more powder. Now, Lara will be here in a minute for your hair. I’ll have a word and make sure she doesn’t go too nuts with the tongs.’

After another ten minutes, I’m totally transformed. Lara—bullied nicely by Hope—has given me loose, beachy waves. Without intervention, I daresay I’d look like I was on the brink of being thrown out of a chocolate factory for stealing squirrels. Now I’m waiting in the dark, staring at glimmering silver stretches of duct tape, marking mysterious noughts and crosses on the floor. A mic pack is clipped to my back pocket, and my trousers have been sponged free of sugar. Dora actually giggled when the pale, nervous young man apologised for having to drop hers down her dress. ‘Ooooh, most action I’ve had all week. See, Imogen, that’s why I don’t wear trousers!’ Right. In just moments, she’s going to be slut-shaming me before the nation, yet right now she’s bragging about forcing the runner to feel her up. Deep breaths. I can do this.

Suddenly Carly looms out of the darkness, a floating head come to impart some last minute advice. ‘Remember, it’s a debate. Really go for each other! Imogen, don’t be polite! Interrupt her!’ She steps back into the shadows, and I look sadly at my fingers. I wish I had some nails left to bite. My stomach gurgles, and my whole body tenses. Please don’t let the first sound I make on live television be a fart.