When she vanished in a cloud of heady perfume, I placed my glass of champagne on a nearby high table to take a closer look.

It comprised of a purple satin drawstring bag. Inside, amongst a scattering of flowery confetti, was an array of extravagant freebies: a rose-gold Swarovski powder compact, gold-flecked hand cream, and a silver lipstick holder studded with diamonds. There were also a couple of Tilly Crabtree branded eye shadows.

I let out a gasp, like a child on Christmas morning. Bloody hell! Goodness knows what each of these complimentary bags cost.

“Ms Leonie Baxter?” came a husky female voice across the top of the crowd. “Is there a Ms Leonie Baxter from Goddess magazine here please?”

I snatched up my glass of fizz and took a huge gulp. No doubt I would need it. I shoved my goodie bag under my right arm. “Hello. Yes, that’s me.”

Heads turned as I slid my hand up into the air.

“Can you follow me please?” smiled the ponytailed woman of before. “I was told you have an appointment with Ms Crabtree to experience the revolution that is Glorious?”

“Er… yes. That’s right.”

“Then please follow me.”

We weaved our way through the chattering crowd and passed the still running advert of the woman drifting around the castle. At least her skin was perfect, even if she did appear to be trapped in there.

The swinging ponytailed lady led me to the right, past another swathe of curtains and more security guards and into a separate room set out with indigo furniture and a dazzling showbiz mirror with light bulbs shining around it.

“Welcome! Welcome!” breezed Tilly. “You must be Leonie.”

We shook hands.

“Athena is such a great friend of mine. Isn’t she a marvel?”

“Isn’t she just?” I managed through a rictus grin.

“Coffee? Tea? Merlot? Green tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I reassured her, waggling my half-drunk champagne flute, before setting my goodie bag and the flute down on top of the fancy showbiz dressing table.

“Excellent!” said Tilly, scrutinising my face.

She prodded the skin around my nose. “A little dry in places. Not enough water, you naughty girl.”

“If I was a dog, that would be more of a worry,” I joked.

That didn’t illicit much response, except for a polite smile.

“Mediterranean glow,” she gasped, taking a step back to evaluate me. “Spanish?”

“Italian. On my mother’s side.”

“Gorgeous! Gorgeous! Well, we’ll soon enhance that,” she assured me, reaching for a new-age glass bottle with a bright-purple lid. It contained a gloopy-looking liquid that reminded me of what Harley had produced on the odd occasion after too many treats.