The following Wednesday, it’s our third recording. Special guest for today: DJ Bassdog, real name Doug Walters. A DJ of Poppy’s acquaintance, Bassdog isn’t what I’d say is most women’s type – his blue mohican hair-do, his studded neck collar and the piercings he has through his nose, eyebrows, tongue and, supposedly, his penis are quite a look. And yet… when he struts through the door to the beat of his own drum and bass music, there’s no denying the man has the X-factor in spades. Requesting what could have been a rather mundane asparagus and parmesan risotto, much is made by us all about the tips of the vegetables, how the ridges on the end may work in the same manner as the piercings over B-dogs, a-hem, bits. It’s all a lot of fun, and I don’t force myself into it.

After the crew clears out, it’s just Faith, Poppy, me, Harry and Joanna on set. Huddled around the kitchen bench, Joanna opens a copy of gossip rag Chit Chat. Several pages in from the cover is the official, studio supplied Eat Me promotional picture.

‘How fabulous,’ Faith purrs. ‘Look at us!’

In the picture, taken on set, we’re all dressed in black. Faith rocks a pantsuit, with a V-neck cut to her flat-as-a-tack tummy, no bra. Poppy is in a floaty little dress with silver sparkles and combat boots. I’m in Spanx – I’d never tried them before, but they are a miracle – under a slinky silk number, patent leather heels on my feet. There’s no room for modesty. Each of us is at our most flattering, dazzling angle in this shot.

‘Sensational,’ Harry says.

He’s standing closest to me, as he tends to do.

‘You’re all perfectly steamy,’ Joanna says, delighted.

From the dressing room, I hear a succession of clicking sounds. The doors slide open and out steps a stranger, a well-built man wearing black jeans, a grey shirt and a scruffy grey leather jacket. A camera is looped around his neck and a satchel is slung across his shoulder. He’s handsome, in that steely, chiselled-chin sort of way. Around forty, roughly Harry’s age, at a guess.

Who is he and what’s he been doing amongst our clothes and stuff?

And how did he get in there without me noticing?

‘Alex, come and meet the team,’ Joanna says.

Alex swaggers over, all hazel eyes, thick brown hair, cheekbones to rival Faith’s. He’s a good looking chap, no doubt about it. But when Alex grins hello, there’s something sinister about it. Thin lips. His perfectly normally sized lips shrink when he smiles. You know the sort.

‘Everyone, this is Alex Sutcliffe, the journalist behind this glowing article, and someone we’ll be collaborating with for publicity,’ Joanna says.

‘Hello there, Harry,’ he says. ‘Ladies.’ His eyes stop at Faith. Alex reeks of cigarettes. ‘Harry Hipgrave, my old pal.’