I notice Luke by the bar, and Suze, Tarkie and I hurry over. He’s standing with Aran and a couple I don’t recognize. He introduces them as Ken and Davina Kerrow, and I remember him telling me about them last week. They’re both producers, and they’re making a film about the Crimean War. Luke and Aran are jockeying to get Sage considered for the part of Florence Nightingale. Apparently, Sage needs a ‘change of direction’ and ‘rebranding’ and being Florence Nightingale will achieve that.

Personally, I don’t think she’s at all suited to being Florence Nightingale, but I’m not going to say that to Luke.

‘Sage is very interested in the role,’ he’s saying now to Ken, who is bearded and intense and frowns a lot. ‘I would say she’s passionate about it.’

Davina is also fairly intense. She’s dressed in a black tuxedo suit and keeps checking her BlackBerry and saying ‘Uh-huh?’ when Luke is in the middle of a sentence.

‘Sage feels this is a story that must be told,’ Luke presses on. ‘She really felt the role spoke to her … Ah, here she is! Just talking about you, Sage.’

Ooh! There’s Sage, approaching in a swishy red dress that sets off her treacly hair perfectly. I feel a small thrill of excitement at the idea of introducing her to Suze and Tarkie.

‘I’d hope you are talking about me,’ says Sage to Luke. ‘Why else do I pay you?’ She gives a roar of laughter and Luke smiles politely.

‘Just talking about Florence,’ he says. ‘I was saying how passionate you are about the role.’

‘Oh totally.’ Sage nods. ‘Did you see my new tattoo?’ She holds out her wrist, waving her fingers playfully, and Luke flinches.

‘Sage, sweetie,’ says Aran evenly. ‘I thought we said no more tattoos.’

‘I had to have it,’ says Sage, looking hurt. ‘It’s a swallow. It means peace.’

‘That would be a dove,’ says Aran, and I see him exchange a look with Luke.

‘Hi Sage,’ I say casually. ‘You look lovely.’

‘You’re so kind.’ Sage sweeps a dazzling smile over me, Suze and Tarkie. ‘Welcome to the benefit. Would you like a photo? Aran, these people would like a photo, could you …?’ I stare at her, confused. She thinks I’m some random fan.

‘It’s me, Becky,’ I say, turning red with embarrassment. ‘Luke’s wife? We met at the house?’

‘Oh, Becky!’ She bursts into laughter again, and presses a hand on my arm. ‘Of course. My bad.’

‘Sage, I’d like you to meet my friends, Suze and Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Suze and Tarkie, may I present Sage …’ I trail off mid-introduction. Sage has turned away from us and is enthusiastically greeting some guy in a midnight-blue tuxedo.

There’s a moment of awkward silence. I can’t believe Sage has been so rude.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble at last.

‘Bex, it’s not your fault!’ says Suze. ‘She’s quite … um …’ She stops, and I can tell she’s trying to be diplomatic.