‘Don’t drag me away, Lauren,’ I plead. ‘Let’s have some fun.’ I might just find myself a celebrity boyfriend. See what Greg would think to that.

‘I’ve got a headache coming on,’ my sister whines, and gives me her most pitiful pout.

So we head for the door – Lauren a little unsteadily.

We pass a table groaning with champagne and Lauren grabs a bottle and two glasses and we take those with us to continue the party on our own.

As we stand and wait for the lift, Lauren takes out her mobile phone. ‘Damn,’ she says. ‘I’ve missed Jude’s call.’

Quickly, she checks her voicemail and there’s a whispered message that I can just about overhear – even though Lauren tries to press her phone close enough to her ear so that she thinks I can’t.

‘Sorry, I couldn’t make it, darling,’ Jude’s smooth tones coo. ‘But you know how much I love you. I’ll speak to you as soon as I can.’

I don’t even bother checking my phone as I know that Greg won’t have bothered to call me. He wouldn’t coo sweet nothings even if he did. My husband is not a cooey sort of man. I’m more likely to get sweet FA than sweet nothings.

Lauren hangs up.

The desperation in her tired smile makes my heart want to break.

‘He said he loves me.’

I just can’t help a disbelieving tut at that. It’s out before I can stop it. If he loves Lauren so much, then where is he tonight, eh? Answer me that.

‘He does,’ she insists crisply. ‘And one day we’ll be together. You’ll see.’

‘I have to admire your optimism, sis,’ I say, as gently as I can.

Then, as we wait to be whisked away from the ball and back up to our bedroom, I marvel at how Lauren can be so optimistic despite the odds being stacked against her. I also take time to wonder where my own optimism has toddled off to.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Chelsea has very generously booked us a suite in this outrageously posh hotel for the night – and paid for it – even though we could have easily gone back to Lauren’s flat in a taxi.

The room we’re in is truly gorgeous – an understated extravagance of cream linen and dark wood – and is bigger than my entire house. We have two bathrooms, a double bed each and a lounge with four sofas in it and a television the size of a multiplex cinema. The artworks look as if they’ve been lifted straight from the walls of Tate Modern.

I want to live here. For ever.

Though it’s not yet eleven o’clock, Lauren and I are washed, brushed and ready for bed. We’re sitting up, dwarfed by our vast neighbouring beds in our jim-jams, a glass of champagne in hand.