‘Nah, calm down, you’re grand,’ Sarah-Jane said. ‘It’s dark now and anyway we got great shots over at City Hall. Jeremy is a dream, honest to God. So obliging for the cameras. Total pro. But, hey, come on in, you’re here for the reception, right? I was just out at the loo. I was dying for a wee, hadn’t a second all day.’

I was glad of Sarah-Jane’s company and stream-of-consciousness babble as we walked together into the bar. There were no more than fifty guests, a string quartet playing classical arrangements of movie themes and a selection of juices and sparkling wine instead of the usual Château de l’Opening plonk. Jeremy Gill was on the far side of the room, his back to me, deep in animated conversation with a woman I didn’t know who looked like she might be a commercial sponsor. She was dressed in the kind of ‘office to cocktail party’ outfit beloved of fashion features around Christmas: a black trouser suit with a red silky camisole and an enormous shiny pendant that she kept fiddling with.

The atmosphere was charged, and everybody was either looking at Jeremy or deliberately not looking at him. I scanned the room, planning my route. At least the small size of the crowd increased my chances of getting to talk to him. And Alice was hovering close by so, if I went to talk to her, I’d be bound to get an introduction.

I felt a tug at my sleeve.

‘Sorry, Sarah-Jane, I was miles away,’ I said. ‘What were you saying?’

‘Just about the photos,’ Sarah-Jane said. ‘I saw that you took some photos from the archive. I was a bit surprised, to be honest. I was wondering …’

‘Oh gosh, Sarah-Jane, I completely forgot to tell you and even worse, I forgot to bring them back. I have them in my office at work and I’ll drop them back to you tomorrow. It’s just that I’m a massive fan and I wanted a copy for my collection.’

She didn’t believe my explanation, I could tell. If only I had returned the photos on Monday, as I had promised myself I would. But I saw that a gap had opened up near Jeremy Gill, and that he was walking in my direction, phone in hand. Tall, tanned and well built, with shoulder-length glossy too-black hair, he wore an open-necked white shirt and a dark blue suit. Even if he wasn’t famous, you wouldn’t miss him in a crowd: age and success agreed with him, and he was far better looking in real life than I had remembered, though I’d only seen him at a distance in 1998. A waiter passed, bearing a tray. Gill grabbed a glass of fizz without breaking his stride.

‘Sorry, Sarah-Jane. I’ll catch you later, okay?’