Although I’m kidding myself if I think the only reason I’ve stayed with Chris is because of money.

In addition to her investments working overtime, Leah herself is busy. The book still provides a trickle, although I don’t know who is buying a five-year-old exposé. Surely it’s yesterday’s news by now. But she also earns a fortune from a company called Angels Inc. I look them up online. They describe themselves as the “revolution in influencer management.” Based out of Los Angeles, they employ thousands of people worldwide to promote products, locations and experiences. You name it, and if someone can smile while pointing to it or holding it, they can make money.

Last month, they paid Leah tens of thousands of pounds. An itemized list with the Angels Inc. logo at the top reveals what she did for the money: four dinners in fancy restaurants, complete with tweeted commentary and a spread on Instagram; drinks in seven bars; dinner with the son of a certain royal family who has been rumored to be involved with some shady dealings. That’s interesting. I remember reading an article that alleged the family were up to their eyeballs in international bond debt and were apparently trying to bolster their legitimacy by pimping out their middle child and his best friend to well-loved socialites on the London circuit. It was a move that asked “How could you possibly be anti the west if you party with them?” All in all Leah had worked—and I use the term extremely loosely—for about thirty hours in total. Perhaps pretending to be her was going to be easier than I had thought. Especially as she seemed to pay a small fortune to someone called Zach to manage her social media accounts, creating content on her behalf and responding to comments.

Unfortunately, the next morning my confidence is shattered by a WhatsApp from an “Emma”: Just leaving for the cabin. Be there shortly.

Who the fuck is Emma? And why is she visiting Leah’s cabin? My fingers fumble on the touchpad as I rush to type: No! Had to come back early. Totally forgot to tell you!

She replies: Thank God! I wasn’t relishing the drive on those atrocious roads. Meet me at the usual place. Midday.

It takes a full five minutes for my heart rate to slow back down to something approaching normal. I have two hours to figure out who this “Emma” is, where’s “the usual place,” and how I’m going to convince her that I’m really Leah.

The picture on her WhatsApp profile shows a woman about my age, blond and pretty in that slightly horsey way rich girls often are. I remember a series of emails in Leah’s work inbox from a woman with a double-barrelled surname.

Yes. Emma Baptiste-Harbington. Leah’s manager. The pair have been tagged repeatedly on Instagram at a stupidly overpriced-looking restaurant not far from the house. I pray this is the “usual place.” It seems that Leah and Emma often sport a “posh ladies who lunch” uniform of a retro tweed jacket, leather elbow patches perfectly matching to knee-high boots worn over skinny jeans.