“Yes, and you will be. The studio is twenty minutes from your office and I know, being the little workaholic that you are, that’s where you’ll be right this minute.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“No buts. All you have to do is grab your boxes of latest on-shelf samples and bring them down here. The girls in the green room will do your hair and makeup, they’ll get you camera ready et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

Megan could just imagine Brendon wafting his hands in the air as he spoke. “And then what?” she asked. “I just hold the shoes to the camera and grin.”

“Oh, don’t be so ungrateful, you little wench. You know what to do. You chat about the material they’re made of, all ethically produced and with your trademark glitter soles. Tell the captivated audience what to wear them with, what occasion, which is every occasion because there is a Winter Shoe for every event in every season.” He laughed. “Come on, you’d be nuts to turn this down. People would pay thousands for this kind of advertising and I’m handing it to you on a platter, a goddamn silver platter. There’ll be models too, showing them off.”

“I’m not turning it down.” She straightened her back and glanced around the room, mentally totting up how many samples she had and which would be the best to take.

“Good. I’ll see you in twenty, twenty-five minutes at the latest. And just so you know…”

“What?”

“If you don’t show up, my darling, my reputation will be in tatters and I’ll be useless to you, as a friend and as your PR agent. In fact, I’ll be useless to everyone, my life will, officially, be over if I let Ralph and Jayne down.”

“I’ll be there.” With her free hand Megan grabbed an enormous holdall from under a chair. “And I’ll have everything with me, as long as—”

“Someone does your hair and makeup, yes that’s covered. See you soon.”

“Yep.”

“And, Megan…”

“What?”

“You’ll be fabulous, you always are, whatever you do.”

Megan rushed through the front doors of Grace Studios with her bag bouncing on her back and the strap looped over her left arm.

“Megan Winter,” she said to the stern-looking security guy.

He consulted his clipboard. “Put your bag on there.” He indicated a conveyor belt that led to what appeared to be an X-ray machine.

Hurriedly, she dumped her huge bag of stiletto shoes and sandals onto the belt. Hopping from one foot to the other, she watched as it slowly, agonisingly slowly, edged its way towards the black plastic flap.

“I’m in a rush,” she said, wringing her hands together.

“Isn’t everyone,” he replied, nodding seriously.

“Like, I’m supposed to be on air within the hour.”

“Isn’t everyone,” he said again and folded his arms.