And then, over her shoulder, someone saunters into my field of vision. He’s coming out of the lift: Alex Elliott, Media Corp’s communications director. He heads for the cloakroom and hands the lady a large red and white Head sports bag.

Frankie Crowther’s words echo in my brain. PRs, they’re the real power brokers. Elliott will be up to his eyes in the Capital takeover. He’ll have the answers.

Marilyn can sense she no longer has my attention. ‘You’ve seen someone more interesting than me?’

‘Sorry, Marilyn. Give me a few minutes.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Gil. Let’s just get out of here.’ She runs a finger down my cheek. ‘It will be the release we need.’

I’m torn. But I have to stick to the plan. ‘I can’t. I’ll explain later.’

I’ve upset her, but she hides it. She gives me a coy smile and spies a Tory special adviser she’s known since university.

Elliott has joined the party and is chatting with Crowther. I can see Jess has had the same thought as me. She’s hovering, waiting to pounce. I sidle over.

‘Wilkinson’s over there,’ she says, pointing towards the back of the room. ‘Drinking with his mates.’

‘I’ll nab him in a minute.’

She gives me a sideways look. She can tell when I’m up to something. ‘What’s up?’

‘I have an idea.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that. What about Wilkinson?’

‘He’s not going to leave while there’s wine flowing. You go and distract Elliott. Make sure he doesn’t look in my direction.’

I go out to the lobby and join the queue for the cloakroom again. Through the double doors I can see Jess is now deep in conversation with Elliott, making a heroic effort to disguise her contempt for him. If I know him, he probably thinks she’ll go home with him, and will only become more convinced with every insult she throws.

‘Do you have your ticket, dearie?’ says the grey-haired lady in front of the desk. She doesn’t look at me. She’ll have been paid twenty quid for the night, plus tips, and is now desperate for us all to leave so she can get the last bus home.

I hand her the ticket she gave me earlier. ‘It’s a coat and a bag.’

‘You should have two tickets then, my love. One for the coat, one for the bag.’

‘Oh.’ As if this has not occurred to me. ‘Sorry.’ I go through my pockets theatrically, turning them all out. ‘Are you sure you gave me two? I only seem to have the one.’

She gives me a shrewd look. But she decides I look all right. All she says is, ‘You probably dropped it. Happens all the time with these flimsy tickets.’

‘They should invest in a proper tagging system,’ I sympathise.