Risky and I are meeting Lauren, Gavin and the PR Jenny at the Marriott Hotel on Westminster Bridge. An entirely random location, booked at the last minute, under fake names, to avoid any press intrusion. Jenny organised everything, and it all feels a bit dramatic. The hotel is one of those huge buildings with long corridors and hundreds of rooms. These places fascinate me. Hotels this size feel like worlds unto their own. Who knows what is happening in this building at any one time. Sexual deviants upstairs, major celebrities downstairs, no one with any idea that the other is there. Risky and I walk down the long corridor looking for a door with ‘Ralph Knott’ written on it, as that is where the meeting with Lauren and Gavin is happening. Risky is practically panting with excitement; she hasn’t met Gavin yet. She put make-up on for the entire cab ride and is acting as if she’s about to walk a red carpet.

I knock on the door and after a few moments, Jenny comes to open it. When she sees us she rudely looks Risky up and down as if scanning her with some imbedded identification chip she has in her brain, then looks along the corridor like we have a team of investigative journalists behind us, before opening the door wide enough for us to get in. We have to duck under her arm. I am guessing this location is about Jenny trying to seem like she has control over the absolute mess that the privacy of this wedding has become. It doesn’t really achieve that though; it’s just given everyone a real ball-ache of a journey into central London during rush hour. I’d be a better PR than Jenny. Her lack of organisation and people skills is petrifying.

‘Did you see any paps on the way in?’ she asks me.

‘Nope, I didn’t notice any.’

‘They’re probably hiding,’ she says, checking the corridor one more time. I suppose she has to at least try to make people think she is important and competent.

The room is big with wooden panels all over the walls. There are six chairs in a circle in the middle. It feels like we are a group of reprobates who are having a secret meeting. Maybe we are.

‘Lauren, so good to see you,’ I say, walking over to her confidently. I do my best to act nonchalant with any of my celebrity clients; I think it’s important for the business.

‘Hi, thanks for coming,’ she says, nervously. Clinging onto Gavin like he is an intravenous drip filtering small amounts of confidence into her. ‘How’s the baby?’

‘Oh, he’s great. So sweet.’