She doesn’t need me? I feel like she’s slapped me in the face.

‘But I haven’t explained each look yet,’ I say, bewildered. ‘I was going to try them on with you, talk you through the accessories, see if we need to alter anything …’

‘I’ll figure it out.’ She spritzes herself with scent, then catches my eye. ‘Go! Have fun with your daughter!’

‘But …’

If I don’t help her create her look, then I’m not a stylist at all. I’m a delivery girl.

‘Your car will take you, right? See you tonight!’ Before I can say anything else, she’s skipped out of the door. I can hear a roar from the paparazzi outside and the sound of engines and the general mayhem that surrounds Sage.

I’m alone, apart from a housekeeper, who walks silently around, picking up bowls and brushing popcorn off the sofa. And just for an instant, I feel totally deflated. This isn’t how I pictured it at all. I had so many ideas I wanted to share with Sage, yet she doesn’t even seem interested in the clothes.

But as I pull out my phone and dial Jeff’s number, I force myself to look on the positive side. Come on. It’s all still good. I’ve still been to her house, I’ve still given her the bones of her outfit. When people ask who styled her, she’ll say, ‘Becky Brandon.’ It’s still my big chance. I have to hold on to this. Whatever else is going on, this is still my big Hollywood chance.

As we approach the house, Lon is still hanging around outside the gates, and he gesticulates wildly at the car. He’s wearing a lime bandana today, and thigh boots.

‘Pirate!’ cries Minnie, who is clutching the ‘Rothko-inspired’ painting she did at the museum. (It’s really good. I’m going to put it in a frame.) ‘See pirate!’

‘Becky!’ I can hear him shouting as we drive past. ‘Becky, wait! Listen! Guess what?’

The thing about me is I’m a total sucker for anyone who says ‘Guess what?’

‘Hey, Jeff,’ I say, as the gates start opening for us. ‘Stop a minute.’

‘Stop a minute?’

‘I want to talk to Lon. That guy.’ I point.

Jeff halts the car and turns round in his seat. He’s got his ‘disappointed’ face on.

‘Rebecca, we’ve talked about street interactions,’ he says. ‘I do not recommend that you get out of the vehicle at this time.’

‘Jeff, honestly.’ I roll my eyes. ‘It’s Lon. He’s a fashion student! I mean, it’s not like he’s hiding a gun.’

OK, saying ‘gun’ was a mistake. At once Jeff stiffens. He’s been on hyper-alert ever since Dad and Tarkie disappeared.

‘If you wish to approach this person …’ he says heavily, ‘I will secure the area first.’

I want to giggle at his disapproving expression. He’s behaving like he’s some stiff and starchy 1930s butler and I’ve said I want to talk to a tramp.

‘Fine. Secure the area.’

Jeff gives me another reproachful look, then gets out of the car. The next minute I can see him frisking Lon. Frisking him!