‘Alex, what do you intend to do with those photographs?’ I persist, while I have the chance. Harry and Joanna may have taken care of things with Chit Chat, but, presumably, Alex still holds the shots. Nobody has spoken to him since they were taken.

‘Oh, it turns out I have countless story opportunities now I’m unencumbered by the rules of some silly magazine. Or, as you generously pointed out, the whims of Joanna Minnow,’ he says.

A black cab. Thank you, universe. I hail and it pulls up to the side of the road.

‘Look, Alex, I genuinely regret how everything turned out. I never set out to—’

‘Have me fired?’ he hisses.

Recoiling from his breath, I step back from the kerb.

Alex laughs maniacally.

Then he jumps in my cab and disappears.

25

I can’t find another cab. It’s pouring with rain. I’ve no brolly. One after another, black cabs sail past me with the yellow light off. I’m a proverbial drowned rat when a car pulls up beside me.

‘Gracie! Get in.’ The rear passenger door swings open. Inside is Bip and Ban.

‘Oh, girls.’ I clamber in. ‘Perfect timing!’

‘What are you doing out here all by yourself?’ asks Ban. Or Bip. Their cream-coloured outfits match and it’s too dark for me to spot the mole that distinguishes their faces. Both are wearing heels, one in ankle boots and one in stilettos.

‘They wouldn’t let me into The Tricycle Club,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t on the guest list.’

‘Snooty place anyway,’ Boots sighs, patting my cheeks dry with her scarf. ‘They stopped serving us last time.’

‘And when we got back from the bar, you’d passed out,’ Stilettos chimes in.

‘We were so worried.’

‘It’s so nice to see you, Gracie.’

They’re talking so fast, I can barely keep up.

‘We’re going to Harry’s.’

‘Come with us?’

‘Oh. Well. Um—’

‘Harry won’t be there. But come anyway.’

‘Please will you?’

The driver calls out, ‘Where to, ladies?’

‘We’ve been dying to see you!’

‘Has Harry not said?’

At that instant, the caffeine hits me. Or maybe the sleeping tablets wear off completely. Either way, though it’s coming up to midnight, I’m in no mood to go home. ‘Girls, I’d love to. Let’s go.’

‘Embankment, please.’

The driver pulls away.

Harry’s pad is the penthouse flat of a purpose-built block right on the Embankment. A narrow balcony runs the length of his open-plan living room overlooking the Thames. The bathrooms – there are two – are floor-to-ceiling marble. The kitchen is granite and stainless steel, and looks as though it’s never been used. In every room, the furniture is modern, tasteful and expensive. The place is immaculate. Despite his cruddy, unstaffed office, Harry’s ‘Agent to the Stars’ business is, by all accounts, booming.