Cue the chorus of ‘woo hoos’ and palpable hum of excitement.

‘—and he has to fly to Chicago straight after this event—’ ‘Woo hoo’ squared.

‘Mr Freddie Litton-Cheney!’

And on he bounds, with infinitely more elegance and poise than old Cum-Nails Bryan. Freddie’s in his highly polished Tom Ford loafers, a tailored cream suit and trousers so tight you can see the dead presidents on his pocket change. His grin is predictably shit-eating and as knicker-wettingly seductive as ever and I can almost hear the distant explosion of a thousand ovaries.

No wonder he’s a star.

‘Thanks so much, everybody.’ He nods with a polite British wave, before manspreading widely atop his stool so The Bulge cannot be ignored. Every one of us is now pregnant with his child. Even the chairs.

He shakes hands with Bryan – poor bastard – but to his credit doesn’t wipe it off afterwards. Hulk Hogan next to me and a couple of younger women further along are fixed on Freddie’s face. Awestruck. That’s the expression. After all, the man they are looking at is the man who has met a serial killer. The man who has hugged a serial killer. The man who has the number one bestselling book about said serial killer.

And that serial killer is little old me.

‘So Freddie, how are you enjoying New York City?’ asks Bryan, slurping up some rogue drool as a few dandruff flakes float from this thatch.

‘Oh, it’s great. I’ve been well looked after by my publisher—’

Freddie informs the crowd that he has already done a tour of major news networks, which produces a third ‘woo hoo’ from a woman in a neck brace on the Frow. He has quite the following. A whole herd of leather trousers gaze up at him – all snap-happy with their phones, all hair-did specially. The fact Freddie has been happily married to another man for years, with whom he has two children, doesn’t put them off. Every hand gesture, every hair flick is to be admired. Every time he says something mildly suggestive, they yank off their knickers and several sodden Tena Ladys fly at his face.

OK that’s a lie, but I’m sure they’re one neat vodka away from doing so.

‘You’ve heard all about the book already of course,’ he says, ‘but part of the reason why I’m doing this tour—’

International fame and a fat stack of cold hard cash?

‘—is that I want to give people the chance to ask me any questions about it, about Rhiannon herself and the time I spent with her—’

I choke back a guffaw. He doorstepped me twice and bought me one ice cream. Our conversation ranged from our favourite doughnut to reasons why Back in the Habit is the best Sister Act movie. We’re hardly besties.