Her phone rang.

‘Morning, Marty, isn’t it a beautiful day?’ she said cheerfully.

‘Sure is, honey. Say – have you seen any newspapers yet today?’

‘Not yet, no. Why?’

‘You’re front-page news, sweet cheeks!’

‘Really? Bloody hell, I can’t believe it! But why? Best TV Newcomer was hardly the most prestigious award of the night …’ She laughed, but was actually thinking, Maybe it’s because I looked so different to all the others in my minidress.

‘It’s not only about the award, Poppy …’ Marty took a breath. ‘There was also the stalker guy in the crowd with the “knife” …’ She could hear him putting the word in inverted commas.

‘Oh, my God.’ After the knife had turned out to be a crucifix, the incident had rather got lost in the excitement of the rest of the evening. Poppy mentally kicked herself. Of course it would make the papers – it had happened right under the noses of the assembled world press, for fuck’s sake. And if they’d papped the nutter, presumably they’d also papped her dramatic rescue by … Oh, fuck.

‘OK, Marty, tell me. How bad is it? Pictures of me and Ben? Loads of speculation as we used to be lovers? Oh, Jesus Christ, there’s not stuff about me going back to Jack’s party with the two of them, is there? Oh, please, Marty, tell me there’s not.’

‘There’s pretty much everything you’ve just said, sweetie.’ Marty sounded sympathetic: he’d witnessed Damian’s jealousy first-hand back in New York. ‘But try not to worry. I’m sure he’ll understand. I’d call him to explain just as soon as you can though.’

‘Thanks, boss, I’ll do that right now.’ Poppy looked at the time on her phone as she hung up: 10.35 a.m. They were three hours ahead in New York. With any luck Damian would just be getting up – he’d sounded completely trashed when she’d spoken to him the previous night, and he liked to lie in. She took a deep breath and clicked on his number.

In the pocket of his rust-coloured velvet jacket, which he’d left hanging over the back of a chair in the penthouse bar of the Gansevoort Hotel, Damian’s phone rang and rang and rang. And rang and rang and rang. And rang and rang and rang.

Damian, at home alone in his marital bed, was having a nightmare and pouring with sweat. As he woke with a jolt, he realized why he was so hot and uncomfortable: he was still wearing his jeans, shirt, socks and shoes, though at least he’d had the foresight to take off his velvet jacket before passing out. God, he must have been twatted last night – Lars’s insistence on shot after shot of schnapps really was lethal.

He took his clothes off and went to the kitchen for a pint of water, looking for his phone on the way. He and Poppy hadn’t bothered installing a landline and he wanted to call her and hear all about her big success again. For all their recent arguing, he really did miss her when they were apart.