In her heyday Angie hardly unpacked her suitcase. She zigzagged the globe, crossing time zones, losing a day of her life here, gaining a day there, glimpsing the molten dawn through her window in Business Class, the curved horizon lit like a forest fire, tomorrow already, before she pulled down the blind. Props were flown across the world for photo-shoots in the Maldives, in Rajasthan and Bali. Once a sarong was flown to Tuscany by private jet because the assistant had ordered the wrong colour. In high summer false snow was blasted from massive nozzles across the Bavarian Alps, wintering the landscape for a shot that was eventually binned.

It was a profligate era, the late seventies. Angie was young, and so stunning that men, cycling past, crashed into lampposts. Tall and slender, honey skin, long blond hair, she was as lovely and fragile as a deer lost in the woods. For she was a vulnerable creature. All her life, predators had circled her, ready to pounce. She’d been molested as a child by an uncle with a damp moustache, an event that only emerged during a counselling session when she was a grown woman and suffering a breakdown. The effect she had on men had, in a sense, blighted her life, because great beauty can bring great loneliness. Women were jealous of her. Men just wanted to jump her. They pretended interest in her opinions—not hugely fascinating, to be honest—but all they were doing was watching her lips.

Nor could she actually be alone, walking along with her own thoughts, because everywhere she went, heads swivelled. It was a peculiar irony, but who on earth would spare their tears for her?

Angie knew no different. She’d always been both blessed and cursed, and was swept along, an innocent really, her looks opening doors into other lives—celebrity lives, billionaire lives—until she was forty and met Calvin. He was flying her to the VIP suite at Glastonbury, where she was about to be dumped by her rock star boyfriend.

She was at a tricky age when she and Calvin fell in love. Forty. She felt walloped by a sledgehammer. She was middle-aged, her looks were fading, it was the beginning of the end! In fact, like many people with great bone-structure, she’d grown even more beautiful, but she’d always been insecure and she thought her life was over. Work had dried up, Calvin told me; a new generation was getting the jobs. The modelling world feeds off young flesh and there’s always been an infinite supply of that. Besides, she was tired of living out of a suitcase. And even more tired of sleazeballs coming on to her.