Afterwards, my mother drags me to the gallery so she can network. I need to sit down like an invalid, while she air-kisses the producer and director – ‘Sweetheart, I still haven’t forgotten our close shave with the Mafia when we were filming Holidaymaking in Sicily in ’97, but what fun!’ – and congratulates the interviewers on their latest BAFTA.

The cab pulls up outside The Ivy, and the driver tries to manoeuvre Mrs Palmer’s wheelchair out, but Tim has to take over. He’s strong and I’m weak and I hate it.

I’ve only been out of hospital for three weeks. The doctors said I was young and otherwise healthy so I should get my fitness back super-fast. Their idea of fitness must be different from mine. The box is the worst thing of all. I see its hard edge every time I shower, like an alien under the flesh of my belly.

‘You all right?’ Kerry asks as we wait to go into the restaurant behind my mum and Kerry’s, who is buzzing at the idea of going somewhere so showbiz.

‘Looking forward to going home. You?’

She shrugs. ‘I want to emigrate. All that stuff about never kissing anyone before? I don’t think I can ever go back to school after this.’

That bit did surprise me. Like everyone at school, I always thought that Kerry and Tim were together. What surprised me even more was how knowing they’re not an item felt like . . . well, something good.

‘People will forget about it soon,’ I lie.

It must have been Mum who made the presenters ask that question. There’s nothing she won’t do to get in with the right people. We’re only at The Ivy now so she can be seen. I’d rather be at Pizza Express. Neither Dad nor I like showing off his wealth, but I guess that’s because we’ve both always had money. His family bankrolled the TV production company he started when he was twenty-two, never doubting that he’d be a success.

When he and Mum fell in love – and I think they did love each other once – they were the golden couple, and Mum created an on-brand life. She dressed them both in the right clothes, decorated and sold their Camden flat, and then oversaw the refurb of Curlews, our ridiculous gated house, while she was eight months pregnant with me. I was another project. She even tried to persuade my dad I should go to private school instead of the local primary, but he was having none of it; thought I needed something to keep my feet on the ground.

It was the right decision. The only time I didn’t feel lonely was kicking a football around the playground or Dyke Road Park. And that’s where I was scouted and the rest is history . . .