“No,” I say triumphantly. “I’m ringing to see if he still fancies Charlie. He’s always had a massive crush on him.”

“Oh, my God.” He advances towards me, waving his hands. “Hang up the phone,” he says urgently. “Don’t do this, Misha. Misha, put the phone down and–”

“Hello, Doug,” I say cheerfully. “It’s Misha Lebedinsky.”

Rupert grits his teeth and sucks in a breath, obviously struggling for calm as we talk.

“Anyway, Doug,” I say cheerfully, trying to ignore the upset feeling in my stomach which must be down to something I’ve eaten. “I’m ringing to see if you fancy coming clubbing with us tomorrow night? Who’s us? Oh, me and Rupert and Charlie. You remember Charlie, don’t you?” I pause, listening to him speak and swallowing the lump in my throat. “He’s single at the moment, and I think he’d love to see you.”

We talk for a few minutes more, and then I click End. “Sorted,” I say grimly to Rupert. “He’s meeting us there. He’s very …” I stop and swallow. “He’s very excited to see Charlie.”

Rupert shakes his head. “Misha, Misha,” he sighs. “You’re such a ginormous cockwomble.”

“What? Why? Because I’m being realistic and trying to be his best friend?”

He holds his hands up. “Because you’ve buried your head in more sand lately than Tiger Woods looking for his ball. Okay.” He smirks. “I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow night. I’ve missed The Jerry Springer Show since they cancelled the programme.”

“It will go wonderfully,” I say through gritted teeth. “Doug and Charlie will love each other.” He nods cheerfully and wanders out of the room. “You need to think about your own romantic life anyway,” I shout after him, but he just waves and ignores me.

Charlie

I lean on the bar while we wait for the barman to serve us. The nightclub’s second floor is walled off with glass, and it’s quieter up here. I glance at Bethany. “Alright? You’re looking very fetching.”

She’s wearing a ripped black T-shirt, net tutu, and legwarmers. “I’m channelling Madonna,” she says, rattling a multitude of bracelets.

“That’s a relief,” I say, looking at her crazily pouffed hair. “For a moment, I thought you were channelling Slash after a wild night out.”

“No, slashing is what I’ll do to your cheeky little shorts if you mock me anymore.”

My own outfit is a pink sweater, blue and white short-shorts, and neon-yellow fingerless gloves. I’m dressed like George Michael at the height of his “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” days. “You’re a vicious woman,” I say cheerfully. I look down at the heaving dancefloor, feeling the beat of the music in my feet, and sigh contentedly. “God, it’s good to be back.”

“It’s good to have you back,” she says, snuggling into me.