At first, nothing much happens. My nostrils tingle as I inhale. A chalky glob slips down the back of my throat. But that’s it. Intoxicated and incredibly nervous about what will happen after my first ever line of cocaine, I refuse to leave the cubicle. I’m roosted on the toilet seat. Bip and Ban are squeezed in, standing in front of me. Already, it’s like having double vision just looking at them. A few minutes later, it hits me: my inaugural line of cocaine. My body trembles. My brain, alert with all sorts of thoughts at once, feels like it’s about to explode – I thought I’d be feeling fabulous.

The girls are being so kind. One of them holds my hand while the other strokes my hair.

‘When will it stop?’ I’m weepy. Tears aren’t flowing, because my nervous system is too busy with all the other goings on, but my eyes are watery and when I wipe them, my finger is black with mascara. ‘Look at me, I’m a mess.’

‘I can fix this up.’ Someone – I’ve no idea who is who and I’m not even trying right now – pats under my eyes with a bit of loo roll.

I fear I might drop dead of a coronary. They’ll find my corpse in the toilet cubicle, covered in my vomit. That’s how it happens. Drugs, vomit, death. What the hell was I thinking, snorting a Class A substance in a club with people I barely know? Who do I think I am?

And so we have spent the past five minutes or so, though it feels very much longer.

Eventually, my convulsions subside. I detect a faint jittering if I put my finger between my teeth – the girls tell me to do this, to distract me. Finally, intense elation rushes in. ‘Oh my, I think it’s working,’ I say.

The girls smile. I’m embarrassed I ruined the experience for them – I’m guessing they usually pass straight to flying high without the check-in to paranoia.

Thankfully, the drug takes care of that niggling doubt post-haste.

‘Okay, shall we get out of here?’ I say.

‘Let’s tidy you up, Gracie.’

We exit the cubicle.

Other women have been coming in and out of the Ladies’ during this respite, and a few of them knocked on our door to ask us to hurry out, but on the whole, nobody has paid us much attention. With the number of other people entering cubicles in pairs, it seems to me half of the clubbers in this place are bang on the charlie tonight – I’m pleased Faith or Poppy didn’t spring us. Faith, in particular, won’t approve of the state of me.