The girls take out some bits and bobs from their bags and attend to my face. Both of them having a go at once, I watch them closely, in the mirror. The final finish is more extreme than when Poppy attends to me – I have not one, but two sets of false eyelashes attached – but it’s not tatty. I look pretty. I match my frilly pink skirt! Best of all, I’m feeling fly.

‘Gracie, are you ready? Shall we go out and get a drink?’

‘Um. Okay.’ It sounds dubious to me – more alcohol on top of drugs.

‘A drink will soften the blow.’

‘All right. But I’m buying. For, you know… And these lashes.’

The girls wrap their arms around mine and, one either side of me, we exit the bathroom. Back out in the club, we find a spot in a dark nook at the back of the dance floor, outside of the VIP area. There’s an extra little bar back here, and it isn’t crowded. I order us another bottle of Veuve.

The girls are right: champagne goes down a treat. Within minutes, my physical rush calms, but I’m still feeling pretty damn great about… everything. The girls are feeling it too. I can tell.

They tell me they loved me the most when they were watching Eat Me. That I have the most luscious hair and bluest eyes. I confess to having noticed the girls, in particular, among the crowd on Harry’s wall. They insist it’s so cute that I keep mixing them up.

‘Remember, Bip is shorter, with a small mole on her left cheek.’

‘And Ban is taller, with shorter hair.’

Feeling an instant closeness to them, I tell them I ended things with my boyfriend this morning.

‘You broke up with Master J?’

‘Well, no. Sort of. I broke up with my boyfriend, Jordan.’ I haven’t stopped to consider what will happen with my mystery boyfriend for the purpose of the show now that I’m single in real life. I suppose, nothing. Eat Me is, after all, a dramatisation. Surely, there’s no reason I can’t keep my pretend boyfriend, if I must?

‘Were you together long?’

‘Over a year.’

‘Was he horrible to you? Is that why you dumped him?’

The question takes me aback for a moment. I haven’t yet discussed all of the details, all of my angst, with Faith.

‘He wasn’t horrible to me. He just… wasn’t very warm.’ It’s surprising, how not-upset I am about us breaking up. I guess that’s how it goes when your partner slowly dumps you first, surreptitiously, disappointment by disappointment, over many months. On the day you make the call, the hurt’s been fully paid. ‘More like a selfish twat than horrible,’ I finish firmly.

The girls giggle. ‘Aren’t they all?’

‘Most of them.’