‘Just this one please,’ she said, placing the packet of peppermints on the counter. She scanned the newspapers and magazines piled in front of her, searching for titbits of old gossip she’d already read almost a decade ago. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes’ marriage is on the rocks; Kate Middleton rumoured to be pregnant with royal heir; Intimate photos of sexy Suits star Meghan Markle’s wedding to producer Trevor Engelson. But then Evie’s eye landed on a photo on the front page of The Sun. Her stomach dropped as she ripped the newspaper from the shelf and stared at the tiny picture in front of her.

‘Excuse me, miss, this isn’t a library.’

Evie looked up, confused. The man behind the stand eyed her impatiently, his hand outstretched for her to pay—and scram, apparently.

‘Oh, yes, sorry. I’ll take the paper too. Thanks,’ she stuttered, then slammed five pounds on the counter, grabbed her things and stepped aside.

Her hands shook just slightly as she flipped to page seven.

Vanessa Hollander spotted kissing author and upcoming actor Hugo Hearst

The famous twenty-two-year-old model was seen looking smitten with Hearst, holding hands in Leicester Square. This comes after the news that Hollander split with long-term boyfriend Arthur Hardy just before Christmas. ‘Vanessa and Hugo are completely head over heels,’ says a close friend.

Underneath the article was a photo of Hugo, his hands woven through Vanessa’s hair, kissing her with tongue in the middle of bloody Leicester Square. Evie could feel a lump in her throat. There was something very surreal about this moment, yet she found herself reacting more to the weirdness of being privy to this act of passion than to any sense of possession over Hugo. Huh. A chapter she’d always thought would be her full narrative had ended.

You’re okay, she reminded herself.

‘Hello?’ Evie knocked on the door and called out awkwardly.

The office door was painted bright blue and tucked away on the second floor of a building that mirrored all the others along the street. She was seven minutes early, exactly as she had planned. Her tongue was burning (which she hadn’t planned on) from the three mints she had scoffed a minute ago; it felt thick and immobile in her mouth.

‘Hello?’ she called out again, rapping her knuckles on the door.

‘Evie, I’m sorry, I just ducked out to get a coffee,’ a woman said from behind her. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

Evie turned to find Florence, in all her professional, creative glory, holding a tray with two coffees in one hand and a notebook in the other. She wore a polka-dot faux-fur coat and heeled orange boots to add to her height—Evie admired how she clearly wasn’t afraid of standing out—and when Evie leaned forward, she smelt of citrus.