‘Camilla,’ someone called as Petra came out of the changing area to a pair of glass doors leading towards the vast lobby. A friendly voice, but insistent. Beyond the doors, the wide floor was chequerboard-tiled, its far end draped over by a broad, sinuous staircase swooping down from the mezzanine level. When the brewery was operating, those administrative offices would have looked down over the busy operations floor, but now the space appeared lifted straight out of a Busby Berkeley set in a Golden Age Hollywood musical. Several gowned and tuxedoed guests clustered around pedestals, nervously trying to get into the mood with coupes of champagne. Jazz piped from somewhere in the wings. Petra almost expected to see a line of chorus girls high-kicking down the stairs.

If she went up to the mezzanine, she could get a decent view of the audience. The lobby was warmly lit and it should be easier to spot Vincent if he was here. She pushed at the door.

‘Camilla. Camilla!’ It was only when Rashida hurried along the corridor from a darkened alcove, heels skitting skilfully across the hazardous polished tile and stopping right there, that Petra realised she was talking to her. For the couple of seconds she was allowed, Petra scoured her face. If this was one of the incendiary creatives behind Metamuse, surely there should be something supranormal about her, but there was nothing too unusual about her bland prettiness that was lifted by her make-up and styling. For a moment, Petra glimpsed something familiar about the woman when she stopped in front of her, but the recognition dissolved. ‘Thanks so much for coming at such late notice, dear. Charlie dropped out at the last minute. He’s so bloody unreliable. We’re short-handed as it is, and we can’t fuck this up. It’s an important night. Lots of VIPs – as always at these university dos. So you know what to do, right?’

Rashida was putting on a stagey, public voice, and Petra guessed this was a scripted scene, one of those calls to action intended to get the audience moving in the right direction. She tried to avoid the conversation. ‘No, sorry,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not Camilla.’

Rashida pasted a toothy snarl-smile on her face, threw her head back and laughed. ‘Yes you are, darling,’ she said, pointing at Petra’s chest, where a small name tag was pinned to the shirt pocket. ‘You were briefed at check-in.’

Of course she was: outside, Jessica Rabbit had told her what role she was playing. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry.’ Petra blushed genuinely. Stuffing up the game in front of its creator. ‘I remember now. What do you need me to do?’