A panicky feeling rises in me as I glance around the huge room full of what looks like tight-knit groups laughing and joking together – how can I possibly march up to one of them and start talking? I might be paying for the party but that doesn’t make it any easier to join a group of people I don’t know and think of something to say. Now that everyone has had a glass or two and become reacquainted with their industry mates, they’ve probably forgotten that their whole reason for being here is meant to be to suck up to me.

I down my champagne and abandon the glass on a nearby table. I’m about to head off to the gents for a pee to give me something to do when a woman with sleek dark hair wearing a tight emerald-green dress appears in front of me. My first thought is that she looks like a mermaid.

‘Mr Redbush?’ She tilts her head to one side and hands me a glass of champagne.

‘Hugo, please,’ I say, as Olivia said I should in almost all situations. ‘And you are?’

‘Ria. I run an events company, it’s called, um, Ria Events.’

I laugh, even though it isn’t funny. ‘Good name.’

‘Thanks,’ she says, blushing. ‘Sometimes we book locations and hotels through Redbush Holidays, which is why I’m …’

‘It’s very kind of you to come,’ I say. ‘I hope you are enjoying the evening?’

I sound like some kind of Victorian gentleman or Montgomery Burns from The Simpsons. I am always rubbish at speaking to women. I look over Ria’s shoulder to see if I can spot Olivia.

‘It’s lovely here,’ she says, circling her finger around the top of her champagne glass. ‘I mean, it’s a lovely venue. I haven’t been here before.’

‘You never came to the museum as a child?’ I ask.

‘No.’ She pauses. ‘My childhood was rather odd. But you don’t want to hear about that now.’

I do actually, but feel it would now be impolite to ask.

Ria looks up at me through long, dark lashes. ‘In all honesty, I’m not much good at parties. I always find events like this intimidating. I feel I have to come for the sake of networking and the like but, honestly, I’d rather be in a quiet bar chatting one-to-one with someone.’

I smile. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

She takes a strand of her almost-black hair and twirls it around her finger. I feel a stirring of lust in my groin and panic – is she about to walk off?

‘All these people,’ she continues. ‘So exhausting. In many ways, I think I’m in the wrong line of work. I make my living organizing parties and events, but I’d rather gouge my eyes out than actually go to one. In many ways, I’m just not that good with people.’