‘Oh yes, I’m a bona fide Sleeping Beauty,’ I reply roughly, falling back onto the pillow. Albeit without the lithe figure and angelic vocals of your usual storybook heroine, nor the ladylike demeanour. Not to mention the Prince flipping Charming on horseback.

I was Cinderella last night. At the stroke of midnight, the spell was broken.

Faith enters the room and thrusts a cold bottle of orange-brown sludge at me. ‘Here.’ The label on the bottle reads ‘25% mango, 40% orange, 30% banana’. The liquid inside looks lumpy and vile. What’s in the other five per cent? ‘Drink it,’ Faith says.

I drink.

She collects the empty bottle and marches out without further engagement.

‘Look at this,’ Poppy says, sliding the newspaper onto my lap. In the entertainment pull-out, she points to a picture of me standing next to the wandering bald man from upstairs at The Tricycle Club last night. Apparently, he’s a famous film producer. Also, the owner of the club. In the photo, I’m wearing the same slinky black top and pink ruffled skirt that’s still on me. The producer, a stranger, had taken me so by surprise the camera caught me with a wide grin and my head tossed back. Only, instead of appearing alarmed, I look like his well-at-ease muse.

‘Joanna is thrilled,’ Poppy exclaims. ‘She didn’t even mind that we all missed coming into the station today. She said to tell you to rest up, her little star, and that she can’t wait to see the coverage we get tomorrow at Drake’s party.’

‘Sorry, what party?’

‘Remember, the invitations from Joanna? Drake. You know his songs. He did the duet with Rhianna. Ooh na na, what’s my name? Ooh, na na, what’s my name?’

‘Poppy. Your name is Poppy.’ I’m not that battered that I’ve forgotten her name, for heavens sakes.

‘Oh, Miss Gracie. What a cutie you are. Okay, what about this one?’ Using my legs as a drum, Poppy begins to rap. ‘Trap, TrapMoneyBenny. This shit got me in my feelings. Gotta be real with it, yup. It’s called “In My Feelings”. By Drake. His party is tomorrow. I’m so excited!’

Is it a song about Benny? How odd. Not the point. ‘Lovely. But there’ll be no “real-ing it” at any party for me tomorrow, Poppy. I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Um, I don’t think we have a choice, my angel. Joanna expects us to at least show our faces.’ Sweet Poppy, who never gets exasperated, sighs audibly.

She checks my forehead with the back of her hand and presses her palm against my chest. ‘Oh my, I don’t know whether you’re hot or cold?’

Probably because I’m shivering, Poppy scuttles around the bed and tucks me tight under the covers. It’s the end of February, so chilly outside. But Faith’s boiler is cranked-up hot and toasty. Soon, I’ll be sweating.