‘Morning.’ I’m instantly intimidated, flustered. I had a fantasy of walking in here with serious moral support in the form of Brendan, but that’s clearly been shot to hell. I’m not used to places like this. I never even go into places like this. Zara is a stretch for me. ‘Um—I think we have an appointment under my boss’s name—Brendan Sullivan?’ There’s no way I can say my boyfriend. Brendan may be able to bullshit like that, but I know that if I said it, my entire face would go red. I’d be as obvious as Pinocchio.

Her entire demeanour changes. She shoots up out of her chair and cranes her neck, her gaze going behind me. ‘Of course. Is Mr Sullivan not joining?’ The last sentence is said with a distinct squeak of panic.

‘He’s, um, running a few minutes late. He said we should start without him.’

She visibly relaxes. ‘Okay. Great. Let’s take you through. Coffee?’ She’s already marching ahead of me down a wide corridor that’s all rosy lighting and flawless cream carpets. The red soles of her spiky-heeled dominatrix boots flash as she walks. She’s in some super edgy, asymmetrical, zip-heavy black dress that looks a million dollars on her. If she’s the one styling me, I really hope she goes with a more classic look.

Scratch that. If I have to undress in front of this woman, I’ve got bigger problems on my hands.

‘Can I get a tea with oat milk, please?’ I squeak out.

‘Sure.’ She stops in front of a door and holds out her hand to usher me through.

Holy crap. In front of me is a stunning and surprisingly large room. It’s cream, just like the reception area, with accents of brass and a wonderful scent of flowers. One corner has a big brass rail tracking around it, the heavy cream velvet curtain pushed all the way to the side, while beside it stand two rails on wheels. One is absolutely stacked with clothes, the other with underwear, while pairs of beautiful, scary shoes sit below each item.

To my left, there’s an ivory-coloured sofa and, in front of it, a coffee table bearing an array of white flowers professionally arranged across a selection of vases and bud holders.

It’s all glorious, and it’s all intimidating as hell.

‘I’m Terri,’ the fearsome brunette says without offering her hand. ‘Fiona will be assisting us today. You can put your bag there.’ She gestures to a little upholstered footstool next to the sofa, which is probably meant for bearing Birkins rather than my Coach-from-TK-Maxx handbag. ‘I’ll fetch your tea. Take off your dress and put on that robe if you like, while we talk you through the clothes.’ She points to a silky robe hanging in the changing corner.