A brilliant new idea hits me and I head over to the car. I heave myself up on to the bonnet, adopt a casual pose and get out my phone – I can be having a phone call in my own drive, while sitting on my car! What could be more natural than that?

‘Hi,’ I say into the phone. ‘Yes. Absolutely.’ I cross my legs at a more flattering angle and gesticulate animatedly with my sunglasses. ‘I know. Awful.’

The sound of cameras snapping is getting more and more frantic. I can’t help beaming with exhilaration. It’s really happening! I’m famous!

‘Becky, who are your shoes by?’ someone yells.

‘Please don’t intrude on my life,’ I reply graciously. ‘I’m just going about my daily business.’ I lift up my feet so everyone can see the cool silver heels, and turn them from side to side.

‘They’re by Yves Saint Laurent,’ I hear a woman say.

‘No they’re not!’ I forget my plan to say nothing, and hurry towards the open gates. ‘They’re Dolce and Gabbana. My top is J Crew and my trousers are Stella McCartney. And my sunglasses are vintage Missoni.’ Should I add ‘I’m available for styling at reasonable prices, please enquire within, no job too small’?

No. Too much.

‘What’s your message to Lois?’ A cluster of microphones arrives right in front of my nose.

‘Who did the clutch bag really belong to, Becky?’

‘Were there drugs in the bag? Is Lois an addict?’

OK, this is getting out of hand.

‘Thank you so much,’ I say, a little shrilly. ‘I’m just going about my daily business. I have an important errand to run. Thank you for respecting my privacy.’ Suddenly I remember about posture. I adjust my legs so they’ll look thinner, and put one hand on my hip like a supermodel.

‘What about your phone call?’ says a sardonic-looking guy in jeans.

Oh yes. The phone call. I’d forgotten about that.

‘Er … bye, then!’ I say into the phone, and hastily put it away. ‘Thank you,’ I add to the journalists. ‘Thank you so much. No press, please.’ Feeling a little hassled, I head towards the car, get out my keys and immediately drop them on the ground. Damn.

No way am I stooping down in front of a bank of cameras, so I cautiously bend my knees as though in a curtsey, keep my back dead straight and manage to hoik the keys up. I sink into the car, start the engine and carefully drive forward. The mob of journalists parts to let the car out, but the flashes and shouts keep coming, and someone even bangs on the roof.

As I finally escape, I sink back and exhale. That was only five minutes – and I’m exhausted. How do celebrities do it?

Anyway. The point is, I did it. Ten minutes later, my heart has stopped thumping and I’m feeling rather pleased with myself. I’m driving along the Hollywood Freeway, saying aloud, ‘Drive on the right. Drive on the right,’ and my sat nav is telling me to keep going straight on. Which is handy as I’m not in the correct lane to turn off anyway. The whizzy no-hands car phone suddenly buzzes with Luke’s number, and I press green for Answer.