Thank God for social media! At least now I know where to go and what to wear.

I want to find out more, to read through all their email exchanges and messages, but I’m out of time. My palms are slick as I arrive at the restaurant and I wipe them frantically on my jeans before I push open the door, eyes scanning for Emma. She’s not there, but my gaze lands on the expectant face of a dark-haired woman sitting alone. Her smile lights up her features and my heart drops to my stomach.

Fuck! Wrong Emma!

Time slows as I watch the woman’s smile turn to confusion while I remain rooted to the spot. My brain is screaming at me to run but I can’t move.

A blast of cold air from behind rouses me and I spin on my toes, directly into the lavender stench of a tall woman. The smell is so strong I positively recoil as she envelops me in the cloud of it, screeching “dah-ling” in my ear.

“Now then, dah-ling, let us sit and talk.” Emma Baptiste-Harbington ushers me past the dark-haired woman, whose attention is now on her phone as she scrolls through Instagram, probably one of Leah’s followers who will tell her friends about what an aloof bitch I was. Emma summons a waiter with a flick of her wrist. “So, first things, first,” she says as she flips over the case of her tablet and jabs at the screen a few times. “That dinner with Jabir was fabulous. Huge profile boost, good coverage. Just the right kind of thing for now. I’ll arrange another evening with them. And well done for turning down his offer. That will definitely help your social capital.”

She sits back a little as a waiter appears with a plate of salad for each of us. “I took the liberty of ordering when I booked the table,” she says, inspecting her knife for watermarks before waving it to the waiter for him to replace. “Too much to do and never enough time. You know how it is, dahling.” I wonder just how hard this woman’s job really is, seeing as it appears to involve lunch and setting up dinner dates. “Now. The next few weeks…” Her voice trails off and she stares expectantly at me.

Am I meant to say something? She breathes out heavily, a little huffing noise like a parent at the end of their tether. I sit up straighter, pulling my shoulders back, and slide my hands under my thighs so she can’t see the tremble. She’s looking at me, staring at my face. Can she see the lie?

“Do we have a problem?” she asks. Do we? “Leah?” As she says the name, I feel myself relax. Whatever she thinks the “problem” is, it isn’t that I’m not Leah.

“Of course not,” I reply. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep very well.” I’m contrite and apologetic.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“OK then,” Emma says and with that, the matter is closed and she moves on. “So, the next few weeks are going to be a bit of fun for you. Two new bar launches and this new concept place. They’re doing pool, old-school, the hipsters want to rejuvenate it…”