‘Locked up in my office,’ Brendan says, ‘which is fucking criminal.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he says it.

‘Amen to that,’ Santi says. ‘Okay, one more time, from the top.’

We’re sitting at our table, and I’m clutching my champagne coupe like it’s a life raft. I’m trying really hard to enjoy Santi’s incredible set from this excellent position right in front of the stage, but the nerves are real. I’m glad we’re doing drinks and not dinner. I’d never be able to get anything down.

Then Santi’s talking and winking right at me. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. I have a special treat for you tonight. To sing Gershwin’s Summertime with me, please welcome to the stage Ms Marlowe Winters!’

Oh fuckity fuck. I give Brendan a panicked glance, and he grins back. ‘You’ll kill it. Go show everyone you were born to be a star.’

That’s ridiculous, but I can’t keep Santi waiting. I rise and walk as elegantly as I can to the low stage. A roadie helps me up the steps, and then I’m joining Santi onstage and taking my seat on a bar stool next to his. He flashes me a warm grin as the audience applauds me and the same roadie hands me a mic.

It feels so different being up here, so atmospheric, with the stage lights and the sublime jazz band and all the eyes on me. I look down and see Brendan leaning forward, his expression rapt, phone held up to record this historical moment. He’s gunning for me one hundred per cent, and it gives me the shot of confidence I need. I glance back at Santi, who raises his eyebrows. You ready? I nod. Ready as I’ll ever be.

And then the gorgeous jazz intro kicks in, and we go for it. I don’t know if it’s the orchestra, or that I’m playing to a crowd, but this performance is far more charged than it was back in the dressing room. We riff off each other, but I get the sense that he’s holding back, maintaining the melody so I can shine. I act on instinct, embracing the improv nature of jazz as much as the uniqueness of this opportunity, my body producing trills and flourishes in real time from seemingly nowhere. I go a little crazy on the final notes, and when I still, the crowd and Santi are on their feet, clapping and stamping and yelling and wolf-whistling.

It’s the most astonishing hit of adrenaline. The performer in me, deliberately dormant for so long, is still there. She loves this. She thrives on it. It’s what makes her feel alive.

And that’s dangerous.

CHAPTER 56

Brendan

Marlowe can’t stop smiling all the way home.

Neither can I.