I’m wearing a dress that I would deem downright slutty but which my socialite Insta-woman would probably class as normal night-out attire. Like the dresses for my interviews with both Camille and Brendan, I’ve rented this designer dress for the evening, giving me a thousand-pound dress for just over a hundred pounds.

Unlike my interview dresses, this one is made from stretchy pale gold lamé, stops at mid-thigh, clings everywhere, and has tiny straps and some sort of clever mesh architecture that serves my boobs up on a platter. One of the benefits of having a kid pretty young is that my boobs held up nicely in the face of breastfeeding and my figure reappeared relatively easily, something I didn’t care much about until now, because I’ve borne and birthed a child is absolutely not the message I want to lead with this evening.

I smooth my hands over my hips, appreciating the luxurious drape of the fabric as well as the crazily flattering cut. I just hope no dodgy bodily fluids get spilt on this dress. I have a sudden flashback to that eternally cringey dry-cleaners scene in the movie The Sweetest Thing.

I’m even wearing a very tiny, sexily pointless lace thong that Athena made me buy from Harrods. Between the thong and the dress length, I scream easy access. Once again, I’ve borrowed her shoes—strappy gold Jimmy Choos this time. They make my legs look endless. I jiggle my left foot to admire the faint sheen of highlighter and the radiant effect it gives my leg.

The biggest transformation, though, has to be my hair and makeup. I’m a bit-of-cream-blush kind of girl, but Athena has worked her magic with flawless makeup, including some sort of bold and smoky eye makeup that accentuates my brown eyes. My hair hangs over my shoulders in beachy waves that look effortless rather than “done”, and I decide I wouldn’t mind having my hair like this every single day.

I look like a magical, sexy creature. When I twist my mouth, a nervous tic I’m well used to seeing in the mirror, I have the most surreal out-of-body experience—a flash of dissonance that feels like someone’s just walked over my grave. Because that’s me in there, under this glossy shell of expensive, attention-grabbing clothes and perfect hair and makeup that looks like the end of a YouTube tutorial.

It’s me… but it’s not.

Even if I can catch glimpses of myself behind the veneer, I definitely don’t feel like myself. Maybe that’s a good thing—a protective measure. Maybe it’s a way of reeling Brendan in and snagging this job and compartmentalising the woman who then has to deliver on this job.