Her eyes focus on my face. ‘Are you wearing false eyelashes?’

‘Just a couple,’ I say, flustered. ‘What is this, the third degree? Anyway, I have to go and run this errand. See you!’

I turn and rush up the stairs. At the front door I take three deep breaths, then push it open. Here we go. Celebrityville, here I come.

At once a barrage of voices hits me.

‘Becky! Beckeee! This way!’

‘Becky, have you been in touch with Lois?’

‘Have you spoken to the police?’

‘Becky! This way!’

Oh my God. There are twice as many journalists as there were before. The gates are about twenty metres away from the front door – tall, with iron bars and swirls – and there are camera lenses pointing at me through every gap. Just for an instant I want to duck back inside the house – but it’s too late now. I’m out.

The thing about having lots of photographers pointing their cameras at you, is they might take a picture at any time. I have to do everything in a flattering way. Sucking in my stomach and throwing my shoulders back, I make my way slowly towards the car, trying to ignore all the shouts.

‘Becky, can we have an interview?’ one man keeps yelling.

‘I’m just going about my daily life,’ I call, tossing my hair back. ‘Thank you.’

My car keys are in my pocket and I manage to get them out in a seamless move. I open the car door – making sure that my legs are crossed over in a Victoria Beckham-type pose – then get in. I close the door, and exhale. There. Done.

Except … What if none of them got a good shot?

Should I have gone closer to the gates? Should I have walked more slowly?

This is my one chance to be photographed by the world’s press in an iconic, defining picture that will be a talking point and launch my career as a Hollywood stylist. I think I need to get out of the car and do it again.

I ponder hard for a few seconds, then open the door and get out, as elegantly as I can. Trying to look as though I’m ignoring the photographers, I stroll right to the front of the drive and start to examine a hedge intently.

‘Becky! Beckee! This way!’

‘No press,’ I say, smoothing down my hair. ‘No press, thank you. I’m just going about my daily business.’

Casually, I take off my sunglasses and do my best sucked-in-cheeks, pouty expression. I swivel this way and that a few times, swinging my arms. Maybe I should open the gates, so they get a better view of my shoes. I zap the gates, and they slowly start to swing open.

‘Becky!’ A woman is waving a microphone in my direction. ‘Sharon Townsend, NBC. Tell us about seeing Lois shoplifting!’

‘Please respect my privacy,’ I say. ‘I’m just going about my daily business.’