‘It’s a burglar, call the police.’ I heard another man’s voice behind me, tense but assertive. ‘You’re stuck now, son. Nowhere for you to go.’

I squirmed, sweaty and sore and utterly humiliated.

‘Get down,’ Patrick ordered. ‘Get down and fuck off and I won’t call the police.’

‘I would if I could,’ I yelled from the other side of the fence, kicking wildly.

‘Probably on drugs,’ the second voice stated. ‘He’s probably on the cocaine or the crack.’

If only, I thought to myself as I heard someone approaching my rear end and watched a hand slide around the wooden door and unhook the latch from the other side. The gate opened, the hinges squealing as I slowly swung backwards until I was face to tiger face with Patrick.

‘Blow me!’ the other man gasped before raising his voice in my direction as the gate began to swing back and forth, the hinges squeaking loudly in protest at the extra weight. ‘Don’t you bloody well move, I’ve got a club in my bag and I’ll knock you out as soon as look at you!’

‘Ros?’ Patrick said, staring up at me as the swinging gate slowed to a steady stop. ‘Is that you?’

‘No,’ I replied in a voice thick with tears brought on by embarrassment and the fact I had several sharp wooden slats stabbing me in the guts.

‘Then why have you got “RR” monogrammed on your backpack?’

‘Because I’m Robert Redford,’ I choked. Every part of me was in pain. ‘I wear this mask when I’m in London so I can walk around without being bothered by my fans.’

‘Ros. Get down.’

‘I can’t,’ I whimpered as the gate swung to a stop and I finally caught sight of Patrick’s face. He did not look nearly as amused as I’d hoped he might. ‘I’m stuck.’

Without another word, I felt him grab my legs and tug as I tried to lift myself up and over the gate, only succeeding in tearing my T-shirt and scratching my stomach as I went.

‘Take the bloody mask off,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘I can’t,’ I said again as my feet touched the floor, quickly followed by my bottom as I crumpled to the ground. ‘It’s stuck.’

Patrick reached over and took hold of the tiger’s head, yanking it roughly over my head and dropping it into my lap. I rubbed my ears and opened and closed my mouth, stretching my jaw. I was a sweaty mess, mascara and eyeliner everywhere, jeans and T-shirt torn and three deep scratches along my stomach. In my lap, I saw a big bloody smudge across the tiger’s face. I looked up to see a silhouette of Patrick, features obscured by the bright sun shining behind him.