I retrieve my bag and my box from under a table of half-eaten iced biscuits and pass a stand with the few remaining books on. I pick one up. On the central pages there are pictures – me and Craig on some night out, me with the PICSOs – People I Can’t Shake Off – me looking bored next to Elaine at some prayer evening, banging a tambourine. Joining WOMBAT – the Women of Monks Bay and Temperley – had been a brief and ill-fated attempt to get good with God. I didn’t last long before they kicked my ass out.

A line snakes back from Freddie’s signing table. I take the book to the tills.

And I wait. Listening to the chatter. Theories. Opinions. Did my mother hit me? Did I actually kill my own dad? Why did I use so much cling film when I chopped AJ up and buried him in the flower beds – didn’t I care about the environment at all? I watch Freddie, sipping his Huel, interacting with his fans, posing for selfies, kissing cheeks, baptising babies, curing cancer.

My turn comes. I stand before the table and slide the book towards him.

‘Hey, thanks for coming.’ He smiles easily, looking up briefly before opening the front cover, readying his pen. ‘What name was it?’

I clear my throat. ‘Deloris.’

‘De-lo-ris,’ he writes.

‘—Van Cartier,’ I add in my best American accent.

He slowly looks up at me, his smile vanishing as colour drains from his cheeks. His pen hovers but after a moment he hands the book back trying not to look directly at me. I don’t take it from him until our eyes meet.

He stares until he blinks. His brow sweats. Gotcha.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Fancy meeting me for a drink? If you’ve got time.’

His mouth hangs open, but snaps shut quickly. ‘I h-h-have a flight.’

‘Ah, no worries.’ His fingertips press down on the page he’s signed. ‘Hey, be careful, don’t smudge the ink.’

The lady behind me giggles, gazing at Freddie adoringly. She doesn’t hear our conversation because my voice is set to a volume only he can hear and everyone else is gossiping too loudly. He reaches for his drink again.

‘There’s a bar down the street. Sluggers. I’ll be in there.’

He nods as the giggle bitch urges me out of the way so she can have Freddie to herself, starting with some interminable anecdote about how she’s making a special pilgrimage to attend every event on his US tour. She asks for a selfie and a ‘cheeky smooch’. She’s a Brit. Ugh. They’re everywhere.

Freddie stares at me as I walk away from his table, a trickle of sweat snaking down his temple. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a trickle of piss escaping the confines of those tight tight trews.