They’ve gone to town on decorations. Paper lei garlands draped over bookshelves, fake roses dangling from jutting Barbra Streisand memoirs, fake petals scattered around the carpet. Everyone on seats or standing is carrying a copy of the book.

My book.

Wow wow wow, fellas. Look at the old girl now, fellas.

They’re giving out iced biscuits too. Flower-shaped – nice touch. The tray is empty by the time it gets to me, of course. Typical. God forbid someone nips out the back to open another packet and refill it.

I spent the best part of my twenties trying to get a book deal. And now I have a bestselling book out with my face on the cover and my story within the pages and it’s been at the top of the (non-fiction) bestseller lists for the last four months. The only problem is I can take none of the credit. No glow radiates on me.

Opportunity has knocked and, once again, I’m fucking out.

Not one of those Best Book Awards or Author of the Year awards or invitations to New York Fashion Week has my name on it. They all have his name on it: Freddie Litton-Cheney. The man whose name is on the cover above mine. He is the author – I am merely his muse.

‘Hey, everyone, thanks so much for coming out on this freezing night,’ Bryan laughs nervously into his mic. ‘A few more minutes and we’ll welcome our special guest to the stage.’ He reads out some fire regs and notices of upcoming events with Michelle Obama and that owl who saved the kids from the barn fire, before bouncing off, black T-shirt patchy with sweat.

Clearly there’s an issue. The star turn has thrown a wobbler over the blue M&Ms or the wrong puppies they got him to play with in the green room while he waits. Nevertheless, all gussets throb with anticipation.

Freddie asked me once why I wasn’t milking my fame more, back in the days when Craig had just been banged up for my crimes and I found myself basking in ‘his’ reflected glory. I’d been offered a shit ton of telly work and magazines to tell my story as Girlfriend of a Serial Killer. Could have earned thousands. He said I was a headliner – I should be centre stage, like Deloris Van Cartier in Sister Act. And now here I am, centre stage – and everyone’s throwing flowers at my understudy. I couldn’t answer him then. I can now.

Bryan gets a message and bounds back on and through his sheen of sweat announces:

‘OK we’re ready now so please put your hands together for tonight’s guest. We are so privileged he’s been able to stop by on his tour of the States, and he’s fresh from a recording of The Ellen Show too, I’m told—’