‘You returning to the show, Abs?’ asked a reporter, shoving a phone over the barrier to record his answer.

‘We’ll see, mate.’ Abs tried to be enigmatic, but knew the chances were slim. But then everyone started asking him about what he was doing, his current projects, and it spooked him. ‘Got to go, fellas.’

Moving quickly towards the door, he was shocked to see Jez standing outside. ‘Bruv, I thought you weren’t gonna come?’

But Jez didn’t smile. ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

Abs didn’t like the sound of that. The last thing he needed was for Jez to go to the police and ’fess up about what happened in Wales. Inside were a load of TV production people, influencers, execs and celebrities, the love of his life was in there, and a full-scale alien invasion wasn’t going to stop him networking, not tonight.

‘Is there somewhere we can go?’ asked Jez. ‘Just for a few minutes.’

‘You’re here now, let’s have a good time.’ Abs threw his arm over Jez’s shoulder and led him to the red rope that blocked the entrance to the club.

A trendy young girl with a milkmaid plait and a clipboard nodded terse confirmation to the hulking doorman – That’s Abs and his +1, let them in – and he unhooked the rope.

It felt so good to be back in the game, but Abs couldn’t help but look back over his shoulder at the photographers, journos and the small crowd of onlookers. Searching for an angry face, for someone who wanted to do him harm. A car drove past slowly; a guy was hanging out of it looking at him, but then it accelerated away. Vince was right, he was paranoid. Who wouldn’t hang out of a car to catch an eyeful of a famous celeb like Abs?

‘It’s important, Abs,’ insisted Jez, looking miserable.

With every step they took into the bowels of the club, Abs became more excited. The brash neon lighting, the overpowering smell of perfume, cologne and hairspray, all the guests milling. The venue had been had hired out by the LIE! producers and was teeming with glamorous people. Women with long, flowing hair extensions, tight dresses and scarlet toes; men in casual suits and expensive trainers, with razor-thin lines of beard framing their chins. Abs felt like he was back where he belonged. Everyone was young, successful and beautiful, and they all expected the world on a stick. These were his people, his tribe.

Straight ahead was the dance floor. Strobing mirror balls scattered colour across the room. To one side was a long, winding bar with flashing lights on the front. He felt the blood pump in his veins, the bass shake his organs. A DJ hunched over decks on a stage, moving in time to the banging tunes he spun on vinyl. Smart serving staff walked among the guests with trays of champagne and canapes.

And the best thing was that when Abs walked in, everyone turned to look. He was greeted with smiles and winks and nods from all around the room. From the TV exec who auditioned him for that property show, that guy who won Big Brother back in ancient times, and a cluster of his former co-stars. They were glad he was there, they respected him, and it made him want to cry with joy.