‘What?’ I repeat, with emphasis.

‘He texted me.’

‘Mr Fourteenth Floor?’ I ask.

‘Yeah.’ Her cheeks flush pink. ‘It’s nothing. Just: Have fun in Paris!’

I take a sip of my coffee. ‘Well, maybe that guy on Etsy was right after all,’ I say. ‘Though I’d still keep an eye on my credit score if I were you.’

She laughs and I laugh, but my eyes are heavy. We are silent for a few moments and then her forehead crinkles and she says, ‘I’m worried about you, Harps.’

‘Why? Because I’m still attracted to narcissistic creative types after all this time?’ I ask, stroking the fur on the handcuffs.

‘You know what I mean.’ She sips on her coffee, watching me. ‘But do you have a picture of him?’

‘Sure,’ I say, feeling my insides get a little colder. ‘Just google Noah X husband, Paris.’

And as Camilla scrolls through her phone, I reach for my bag on the floor by the sofa and riffle through it for a paperclip.

‘I don’t see anything,’ she says.

‘Third page. It’s the picture right at the bottom. A man and a woman. Tux.’

As I wait for her to find it, I lengthen out the paperclip so it’s a long piece of wire. I insert one end into the handcuff lock, bending it backwards so it kinks. Now I have a small ‘L’ shape at the bottom. I insert that under the lock pin like a tiny finger and lift it up. The upper teeth release and it clicks open. Still got it.

I wrote about this once: ‘What to do if your Tinder date leaves you stranded’. It won me over three hundred likes.

‘Is this it?’ Camilla asks, turning her phone to face me.

‘Yep,’ I say, clicking shut the handcuffs again and putting them down next to me.

‘But he’s so hot,’ she says.

‘So was Patrick Bateman in American Psycho,’ I say.

‘Wait, is that his wife?’

I nod and take a big sip of coffee.

She’s frowning at the screen. ‘God, he just really doesn’t look like a killer, does he?’ She looks up at me.

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘But people always want killers to be monsters. Nobody wants it to be the hot guy. But sometimes it is.’

She sighs, puts her phone down and looks up at me. ‘Right. Enough of this. We have plans today, go shower.’

‘What sort of plans?’ I ask, eyes narrowed as I take another sip of coffee.

‘I’m not telling. Just go shower.’

Fifteen minutes later I’m heading out of the steam of the shower, my hair in a towel as I head to my room to change. Camilla is still sitting on the sofa bed, scrolling through her phone.