‘Can I please buy some running shoes, too?’ I change the subject. ‘I can’t exactly run in these!’ I gesture at my Marc Jacobs kitten heels with a little laugh. (For the record, I did once climb an entire mountain in a pair of shoes just like these. But I mentioned that to Luke yesterday as proof of my athletic ability and he shuddered and said he’d wiped that whole incident from his memory.)

‘Sure.’ Mindy nods. ‘You’ll want our technical store, Pump! It’s right across the street. They stock all the shoes, equipment, heart-rate monitors … did you get a bio-mechanical assessment in the UK?’

I look at her blankly. A bio-what?

‘Talk to the guys across the street, they’ll get you set up.’ She hands me a carrier bag holding my clothes. ‘You must be super-fit. I’ve worked out with Sage Seymour’s trainer. She’s hardcore. And I’ve heard about the team regimen. Didn’t you, like, go to Arizona for training?’

This conversation is unnerving me a tad. Hardcore? Team regimen? Anyway, I mustn’t lose confidence. I’m perfectly fit enough to run a race, even if it is in LA.

‘I haven’t been on the regimen exactly,’ I admit. ‘But obviously I have my own … er … cardio … programme … thing …’

I’ll be fine. It’s just running. How hard can it be?

As I head back out to Rodeo Drive, I feel a swoosh of exhilaration as the warm spring air hits me. I’m going to love living in LA, I just know it. Everything people say about it is true. The sun shines and the people have super-white teeth and the mansions look like film sets. I’ve looked at several houses for rent and they all have pools. It’s as if a pool is a normal thing, like a fridge.

The street around me simply glistens with glamour. It’s lined with expensive, shiny shopfronts and perfect palm trees and rows of luxurious-looking cars. Cars are a whole different thing here. People drive by in their colourful convertibles with the roof down, looking all relaxed and friendly, as if you might stroll up to them while they’re pausing at the lights and start a conversation. It’s the opposite of Britain where everyone’s in their own self-contained metal box, swearing at the rain.

Sunlight is glinting off all the shop windows and sunglasses and expensive watches on people’s wrists. Outside Dolce & Gabbana, a woman is piling a whole load of bags into a car, and she looks just like Julia Roberts, except with blonder hair. And a bit smaller. But apart from that, just like Julia Roberts! On Rodeo Drive!

I’m just trying to edge closer to see what bags she’s got, when my phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see Gayle on the screen. Gayle is my new boss at Dalawear, and we’re having a meeting tomorrow morning.

‘Hi, Gayle!’ I say in cheerful, professional tones. ‘Did you get my message? Are we still on for tomorrow?’