Harry is first to precipitate a handshake. ‘Alex Sutcliffe, it’s been a while.’

‘Still got your wall?’

‘Indeed. I put the girls up there yesterday.’

Alex shows his teeth again and eyeballs Faith. ‘I’ll bet you did, old pal. I’ll bet you did!’

I see fit to blurt out, ‘You know Harry well then, Alex?’

‘We were at university together.’ Alex sizes me up. Grins again. ‘For a bit.’

‘I studied journalism for a while,’ Harry says.

‘He dropped out after the first year,’ Alex adds, unnecessarily. Harry gives me a conspiring look. ‘Word is you’ve built yourself an enviable agency. I must come and check out that wall of yours again some time.’

‘Pop by anytime,’ Harry says, but I sense a less than friendly vibe.

Joanna, also sensitive to the vibe, moves things along nicely. ‘I’m pleased you two get along,’ she says, and then turns to us. ‘Alex will be pulling together some personal pieces to raise your profiles.’

‘Usually, I take all my own pictures.’ Alex pats his camera.

‘What sort of personal pieces?’ I ask, glancing at the copy of Chit Chat. Closed on the bench, the front cover is a collage of candid photographs of female movie stars – I won’t mention who, as I find the whole thing distasteful – with pockets of visible cellulite on their behinds. The headline reads ‘Celebrity Bum Notes’.

Liz is the sole journalist I’ve spoken with previously. Though we chat about many things, she only ever writes about my opinions on seasonal produce, ovenware and the like.

Joanna observes my nervousness. ‘Alex will play nicely or have me to answer to.’

‘I’d very much like to continue my association with you, and with Titan in the US,’ Alex responds, slickly.

‘Good,’ Joanna says. ‘Ladies, I also have some invitations. Few big events coming up where the media will be snapping their lenses. It would good if you can pop in, get papped, and leave when you want. Or stay to mingle. Your call. But get yourself seen. We need to hype up your public personas pronto. Harry, I’ll leave you in charge?’

‘With pleasure.’

Joanna passes Harry a handful of envelopes. ‘The Tricycle Club is opening this Thursday; you’re all be VIP for that one. And I’ve pulled some strings to get you on the guest list with Drake this Saturday.’ Joanna checks her watch.

‘OMG, Drake! The Drake?’ Poppy screams, over the moon to hear it’s indeed an invitation to the famous Canadian rap star’s London party. ‘His lyrics are poetry, Miss Gracie.’ She clutches the invitation Harry has passed over, a black envelope embossed with a flaming gold skull. ‘Not, like, boring poetry,’ she giggles.

‘The press will be out in force for that one,’ Joanna says. ‘Don’t miss it.’