I’m wearing the tea-stained ivory brocaded shirt. Yes, the same shirt I vowed I’d chuck after Faith whisked me out of it for our first meeting with Harry. It was in a bag in the kitchen, ready for the charity bin. After I showered and dressed, I tended to Benny one last time and my top got wet with water. Benny was in his cage ready to go. The shirt was the closest thing handy. It isn’t even ironed.

‘Which reminds me, I read a review in the Daily. I know it’s a foodie section, but nonetheless, you came off as awfully dull,’ she goes on. ‘Do try and be more interesting. That will be all.’

Faith flounced her way through the photo shoot while Poppy and I assisted her in and out of various clothes. At 6 p.m., we’re back in our dressing room, trying to sort me an outfit for tonight’s opening of The Tricycle Club, my new clothes being strewn over the floor at home, potentially torn to pieces and almost certainly stinking of cat poop. (I scarcely had time to attend to Benny and then myself this morning, let alone the state of the flat.) Because the plan is for us to get photographed by the paparazzi, Joanna doesn’t want us in anything we’ve already worn in any recordings – and she expects us to dazzle. Faith and Poppy have given up suggesting we take a cab to my flat and collect my new outfits, or even grab one of my trusty old dresses, even though I haven’t provided a single good reason why we shouldn’t do exactly that.

We’ve been trawling through the freebies sent by various designers. I don’t fit into any of it. They’re mostly too big for Poppy. It’s all sized to fit Faith. On top of everything, it’s putting me in a furiously bad mood.

Poppy tries to convince me her super stretchy, pink ruffled skirt paired with the slinky black top in Faith’s stash looks remotely fine on me. The skirt fits well enough, but it’s frilly pink. Faith’s top is too tight – I have the nipples-almost-popping-out-bosom thing going on again, which I’m in no mood to monitor, or cover with a scarf in a club. They’ve also put me into Faith’s high-heeled ankle boots – I barely have ankles.

From across our dressing room, Poppy says, ‘Honestly, my angel, you look glorious.’

My cleavage pops up at the front.

‘Glorious?!’ I wail, attempting – and failing – to push my boobs back inside. I take off the top and pick up the paper by my side while Poppy and Faith comb through the clothes rails.