‘Thanks, Andy. You’re a good man.’

As Andy let himself into the tiny flat at 9.06 precisely, Bella leapt up off the chaise longue, where she’d been buried in a trashy novel, and ran towards him with her arms outstretched.

‘Oh, darling, you’re early! I wasn’t expecting you till 9.30! Oh, I’m so sorry I’ve been such a spoilt bitch – I know how important your work is to you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I love you!’ She could hardly get the words out in her eagerness for everything to be OK again, and seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time.

Andy looked at her big-eyed, sincere, imploring face for a couple of seconds. Then he took it in one hand, smoothing her hair back from her brow with the other.

‘There’s nothing to apologize for. I love you too.’

And he proceeded to kiss the life out of her.

Chapter 17

As it happened, the LA stylists decided not to put Poppy in a floor-length gown.

‘Noooo, that would swamp her!’ they had said to the designer, who was trying to get publicity for his new collection. ‘Don’t you have anything shorter? Edgier? This is Poppy Wallace you’re dealing with. Don’t you ever watch TV?’

‘Not if I can help it, no,’ the designer had sniffed, huffily. But he took their point.

And so it was that Poppy was standing on the red carpet, looking ridiculously cute in a very short white crochet-effect lace minidress. Buttery soft nude suede knee boots emphasized her perfectly proportioned brown legs. She’d had a long fringe cut and her streaky blonde hair swung around her shoulders in a style that her hair designer had described as, ‘Nineteen sixty-six to seven, halfway between dolly bird and hippy chick – sooo you.’ Privately, Poppy thought that her look was more retro than edgy, but who was she to complain? It suited her.

‘Poppy! Poppy Wallace! Over here, beautiful! Look this way, Poppy! Poppy, Poppy, POPPY!’

The lights of the flashbulbs were so bright that she could hardly see, but Poppy turned and twisted and turned and twisted, her smile pasted to her face. Half of her adored the attention; it almost felt as if this was what she’d been born to do. The other half felt a little scared – Jesus, what had she let herself in for?

Just as she was thinking this, she heard some people shouting over the demands of the paparazzi. What was going on? She strained to see in the flashlights, while still trying to maintain a flattering pose: no mean feat.

‘Poppy Wallace, I love you!’ shouted a fat man who looked as if he needed remedial care. She was just thinking that Bella would enjoy being told that this was the type of fan she attracted, when the nutter managed to break through the velvet rope.

‘Poppy! My most beautiful angel, you must be MINE!’ He was shouting, and – bloody hell, was that a knife in his hand?