But on the walk to the museum everyone’s spirits lifted.

‘It might be a laugh,’ Max said.

We trudged to a side entrance and Max keyed in the door code that had been scribbled in the corner of the invitation card. The chatter continued – ‘What are you doing this weekend then, folks?’ – while we took off our coats and dropped our bags.

I was midway through fabricating an answer when the person who’d come to meet us – ‘If you follow me around this way’ – brought us to a stop outside a studio space and the words died on my lips. In the centre of the room, balanced on a wooden stool, there was the curve of a back so smooth-running I thought it might have been moulded. Our very female model was waiting for us and, as Miranda had begrudgingly predicted, she was beautiful. Her hair was a deep brown, tumbling in the loose curls that I could only ever get if the hairdresser did them for me – despite my best homemade efforts. There was a faint tattoo across her lower back, although I couldn’t make out the details of it; it looked as though it had been dabbed over with foundation, though, not scarred enough to be a laser treatment. She was busy talking to another woman – older, also beautiful, with grey hair plaited and trailing over one shoulder – but they stopped when we came in.

‘Evening, all,’ the older woman started. ‘I’m Dorothea. I’ll be taking the class this evening, and from the looks on your faces I can tell you’re all suitably terrified,’ she joked, and we reciprocated with nervous laughter. ‘This is Winifred, who’ll be our model for the night.’

She turned around to introduce herself. ‘You can all call me Fred.’

Or, I thought, I could call you the waitress, from the café.

*

Little did I know – after being told to appreciate the arch of the back and the curve of the breasts – the most embarrassing part of the evening was yet to come. When we’d all put down our weapons of choice, Dorothea announced that Fred would get her robe and then do a walk around of the room to inspect the works. From the stretch of Max’s eyes, I could only guess that his output was as dreadful as my own – which I took great comfort in.

‘Well, I’m about to insult this nice lady when she takes a look at this,’ Xander muttered along the line of us, and that broke the tension a little further. ‘But don’t we all feel closer as a team?’

Helena tried to brush the charcoal from her hands. ‘Yeah, closer to the pub.’