I get myself across the river and meet Athena in Mayfair before we show up at the bar together. As usual, she looks immaculate in a strappy black dress, her auburn hair styled in glossy waves. She greets me with a tight hug and an aggressively worded warning that she wants and expects a full debrief of absolutely everything that’s gone down (pun intended, I’m sure) with Brendan this week. Clearly, she thinks she’s above NDAs, and clearly I won’t hold back from dishing the dirt to her.

After all, she’s even more of a vault than her priest boyfriend.

This place is like an alternate universe. It’s on the top floor of a swanky hotel, with huge windows showcasing a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the London cityscape. It’s incredible. The weather is perfect this evening, and as the sun lowers in the sky, it bathes the beautiful people in a golden glow.

And the people really are beautiful. It’s a wealthy, shiny crowd for whom this is a standard Friday night. Confidence rolls off everyone in waves. These are not people who have a problem taking up space. It’s no surprise when Athena steers me to the glossiest, noisiest corner of the room, where the seraphim stand by a huge window facing due west. This must be the most sought-after corner of the entire bar. If I survive long enough, the sunset will be spectacular.

Despite the armour of my fabulous Miu Miu, the imposter syndrome kicks in immediately, because these women all look like supermodels who’ve probably moonlit at the UN and the White House, too. You know the type? Fiercely intelligent. So much panache. So accomplished. The kind of gilded darlings who float through life like it’s a lazy river.

I went to school with lots of girls like that, but a glance tells me that these women are in a different league. More worldly. More sophisticated. More competent. I take a moment to drink them in. They’re a bunch of gorgeous, glittering birds of paradise, and their sparkling laughter and glamorous looks are definitely drawing attention, but they seem oblivious.

Almost at once, I spot Sophia. She comes towards us, arms outstretched in glee, her smile wide. This woman is ridiculous. She’s indecently tanned and absolutely glowing, her long dark hair a shiny mane. She wears her fringe long and feathered so that her brown eyes peek seductively out from underneath it. Her dress is skintight, electric blue, and has her incredible boobs out on a platter.

It’s a wonder her boss gets any work done at all. She told me he’s in his sixties—some old, horny Greek shipping magnate. I can’t even imagine. I’m suddenly even more grateful that my dodgy moneymaking scheme comes with an outrageously hot man who serves up outrageously hot orgasms.