I’ve made some dubious fashion statements recently, but this morning takes the biscuit. My hair has a streak of green paint on one side, transferred from one of the ravers last night. Dried-up bits of azure mascara cake my eyes. A huge spot on my chin threatens imminent eruption. My tongue is brown – I was chain-smoking inside the club, and nobody batted an eyelid (or lost their eyelashes).

When I sit down and pee, it comes out dark yellow and burns. I finish up and quickly comb my hair, swirl some mouthwash and rub a damp flannel over my mucky eyes. It’s a marginal improvement, until I mistakenly give the pimple a big squeeze, causing it to weep quite unstoppably.

‘Hurry up,’ Faith calls. ‘We don’t care what you look like. Trust me, it’s a little late for that!’

The spot is an angry volcano. I dab on concealer in a futile attempt to cover it. My broken skin is too oozy for it to hold. Desperate, I slather on some talcum powder for absorption – needs must – then more concealer. It’ll do.

By the time Faith calls again, it’s one spray of deodorant and I’m done.

Suppressing the urge to run back to bed and pull the covers over my head until they leave, I force myself through to the front room.

I position myself strategically at the end of the sofa, spot side facing away from Harry. Faith gives my tights a cursory wince before her gaze moves to where the strapless red top peeks through a gap in my gown. I curse myself for not getting changed and avoid further eye contact. From what I could see out of them, my pupils are still dilated.

‘So?’ I say.

‘So, Harry received this, first thing this morning.’ Faith hands me the yellow envelope.

‘Actually, the girls received it first thing,’ Harry clarifies. I don’t mention I was with the girls until very early this morning, and in his flat the night before. If Harry doesn’t already know this, I’m not telling. ‘They saw Alex Sutcliffe lurking about after it was pushed under my front door. They called me straight away.’

‘These are the photographs of Jordan?’ I unseal the envelope.

‘See for yourself.’ Faith says.

I slide out the photographs. The first is of Jordan spooning cat food into his mouth. The label on the can is legible: Pussy Paws – Packs a Punch Against Fleas. As Jordan feared, the big secret revealed.

‘Oh dear.’

‘Keep looking,’ Faith says.

I bristle at her tone.

The images get worse. Jordan gagging on a mouthful of sardine heads in jelly. Cat food spraying out his mouth, eyes wide with shock as he clocked Alex. A sequence of me thundering down Warwick Avenue in my ridiculous detective outfit, threatening the slimy photographer.

‘I would’ve speared him if I’d caught him,’ I joke.