The thought of Iain flirting with the record company’s accountant to coax it out of her made goosebumps of disgust skitter down my spine.

I imagined him out there now, swaying on a bar stool in the pub on the corner of my square, possibly even staring at my house through the mullioned bar windows.

‘Like I said, Iain, I’m getting ready for bed now; there’s no way I’m going out.’

‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’ I heard the lasciviousness in his voice. Bloody men. I should’ve stayed gay; women were just so much nicer.

But then I remembered Samantha’s behaviour, and thought, well, not all women.

It was as if Iain read my mind, because what he said next made me want to storm round to the pub – assuming that was where he was – and punch his Afrikaaner lights out.

‘I just thought you should be aware that I’m doing you a massive favour here. You see, I’ve learned something about you that you’re not going to want anybody else to know, and unless we’re … careful, they will find out. They will be very interested. And believe me, it would not be good for the band’s image.’

I tried to sound bored, but panicked butterflies were beginning to flap inside me. ‘What are you talking about, Iain?’

‘I’ve had a letter.’

‘Right. A letter from who?’

‘A letter from someone who used to know you very well. Samantha Applebaum.’

At the sound of Samantha’s name, the butterflies almost carved their way out of my solar plexus, their wings tiny knives. ‘What did she want? Did she write to you?’

‘Not personally, but lucky for you, it landed on my desk unopened. It was a To Whom It May Concern. Pretty snarky letter, in my opinion. She’s not happy with you, is she? But more to the point … I didn’t know you were a lesbian, Merry, you sly old dog!’

‘I’m bisexual,’ I said, too hastily. ‘Not that it’s anybody’s business.’

‘Ah, but it is. Some would argue that it’s everybody’s business. And you know what all your fans would think? They’d think that you’d lied to them, by omission; that you’re a fake…’

‘I’m not a fake!’ I realised I was almost shouting, and had to force myself to calm down. ‘Why did she write?’

Iain exhaled, a great smug gleeful breath. ‘She wants money. She said that unless we pay her ten grand, she’s going to the papers with the story of your relationship, and how she was the reason that you’re even in the band in the first place, how she was the obvious choice for lead singer but you pushed her out of the running for the job. She even provides a handy PO Box number for us to send the cheque to.’