The piece was accompanied by far too many photos. Numbly, automatically, Damian found himself clicking through them: several of Poppy on the red carpet, looking utterly gorgeous in her minidress and boots as she posed for the cameras; a few of Ben looking dashing and manly as he threw his dinner jacket over her head and swept her indoors. And then, obviously taken much later in the evening, and probably through a long lens, grainier footage: Ben and Jack reclining on sun loungers, with Poppy sitting on the floor between them, chatting animatedly; all three of them laughing about something, Jack sitting up straight this time; Poppy standing up with her arms around Ben …

‘YOU FUCKING BITCH!’ Damian shouted at the screen, remembering his conversation with Poppy the previous night. She had probably been with them then, all three of them laughing at him behind his back. Absolutely overcome with pain, humiliation and anger, he threw himself at the bare brick wall, kicking and punching it until his feet and knuckles bled. Then he collapsed in a heap against it, clutching his dark head, sobbing.

After a bit, he picked up some kitchen roll to wipe up his blood, then went back to the computer to torture himself some more. He had two new messages. First, he opened the one from Poppy, every finger joint hurting as he worked his way round the mouse and keyboard.

Oh darling, I’ve been trying to call you all morning. I’ve got something to tell you, but you mustn’t take it the wrong way …

Everything misted over and he couldn’t bring himself to read any more. Lying little bitch. He remembered her looking him in the eye and saying, ‘Yes, I would,’ when he asked her if she’d like a threesome with Ben and Jack. Fuck her. He deleted her message and opened the one from Lars instead.

Man is my head heavy. Don’t cancel anything – your phone is still at the Gansevoort. You really don’t remember? Ha! Are we still meeting tonight to watch your beautiful wife on TV? Maybe we can meet earlier? I need beers and I need them fast. Lars

Damian typed back:

I may need something stronger. Read this:

He attached the link to the webpage and pressed SEND with his little finger, the one that hurt the least. A few minutes later, Lars’s reply flashed up:

Meet me at Stone Street in 15 minutes. I’ll order drinks. Don’t jump to any conclusions. But man, that journalist is one motherfucking BITCH.

Poppy checked her phone again, frantic with worry. Damian hadn’t replied to her email and still wasn’t answering his phone. Maybe she hadn’t explained enough in the first email. She tried again:

Listen darling, whatever you may have seen in the gutter press, there is absolutely NOTHING going on between me and Ben. He is actually IN LOVE, would you believe it? And guess who with? NATALIA, of all people!!! Oh sweetheart, please pick up your phone (if you’ve managed to find it) so we can have a good old gossip about it. I’ve got so much to tell you! I’m really, really sorry if you’re upset, but really, all Ben did was rescue me when he thought I was in danger, which was quite nice of him really, wasn’t it darling? I love you xxxx