Yesterday was an attempt to do not only that but to scratch that familiar itch of mine. The itch that yearns to show everyone how well I’ve done. How far I’ve come. How fucking big I’ve made it. Most of those dickheads yesterday are highly successful men. Not as successful as me, mind you, but they’ve done alright for themselves.

We all enjoy the same trappings, just as we judge each other on them. Strippers. Lambos. Yachts. Strippers on yachts. Snorting coke off strippers on yachts. Spraying four-figure bottles of champagne over topless women at Nikki Beach in St Tropez.

It gets tired pretty quickly. The toys lose their shine. So when you have the best toy of all, you want to wheel it out, take it for a ride in front of all your friends until they’re half sick with jealousy.

But what you don’t want is your toy safe-ing out after you’ve promised the bros a show and then suggesting you blow your own friend.

Not cool, Marlowe. Not cool at all.

I was half minded to call up that Camille woman and complain, to just pull Marlowe’s contract and find me another seraph to replace her. After all, they’re all interchangeable, aren’t they? But something stopped me, and I’m choosing to believe that it wasn’t the thought of replacing Marlowe. I was just sober enough to know that Camille wouldn’t take kindly to a drunken rant, and plenty sober enough to remember Athena’s threat to skin my balls with a rusty butter knife—or was it castration she threatened?

Either way, I don’t want to poke the bear, and her silence over the past twenty-four hours suggests Marlowe hasn’t gone crying to her. Not yet, anyway.

So I’ll sit tight. I’ll bide my time, and I’ll give Marlowe the chance to return in two weeks with her tail between her legs. Meanwhile, I’ll employ some old tricks to ensure that I don’t spend the next fortnight moping around like Mark does when I’ve taken away his favourite bone.

Fernanda Luz da Costa is, objectively speaking, as big a trophy as they come. And, unlike certain other people, she doesn’t mind me showing her off. She’s a Brazilian supermodel working and living in London and, critically for my internal trophy value calculator, she was on the cover of British Vogue last month.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Marls.

Full disclosure: we’ve hooked up before, and, even if she’s physically flawless, she was one of the least interesting fucks I’ve ever had. Lay on her back like a limp fish. Nobody else needs to know that, though. I shoot her a text and she agrees, with indecent haste, to be my escort to a lavish fundraiser for Great Ormond Street Hospital, of which Sullivan Construction is a patron.