He was used to hanging out with models and actresses, but they were a completely different breed here in California. The edginess/quirkiness/kookiness (take your pick) so prized by the coolest London model agencies would be greeted here with absolute bemusement. If anything fell short of cookie-cutter perfection, the little darlings just went and got it fixed.

Without even trying, he’d picked up a fistful of colourful business cards during his run. He picked a few off the breakfast bar and laughed.

I’m Carrie (heart drawn above the i). Actress, model, spiritual healer. Call me!

Melissa – I do pedicures and aura cleansing. Let me make you beautiful, inside AND out! Sole and soul!

Jennifer Jackson. Nutritionist and personal trainer.

He turned over the last one to see the photo (they all had photos on the back) and recalled the mixed-race girl with a wide smile, dreadlocks and body to die for. He’d actually stopped for a few seconds to watch her arse as she sauntered off in the sand. Then he’d jogged back to the rented clapboard beach house his agent had found for him. He put Jennifer Jackson’s card to one side – she might be worth a booty call.

Beautiful, and vain as hell, Ben walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror that lined the far wall of his open-plan living space. His floppy gold-streaked light brown fringe, still a little damp from the shower, grazed his long black eyelashes. His pink pouty lips, delicious blue eyes and high cheekbones had made him such a hit back home that he had managed to acquire an LA agent almost without trying.

People Like Us, the UK sitcom whose first series he had starred in, had been a runaway success and attracted the interest of Belinda Hyman, one of the most notoriously hard-bitten agents in Hollywood. He was contracted to star in three series of People Like Us, and due to start filming the next in a few months’ time, but if he landed a movie role – well. Belinda wasn’t known as the Bitch of Beverly Hills for nothing.

Ben flexed a muscle or two and smiled in satisfaction.

Looking good, boyo. Occasionally, the Welsh accent resurfaced, though only in his head.

‘Benny, honey? Baby’s getting lonely,’ called a very young voice from his bedroom.

He smiled again, focusing on his newly whitened teeth, as he recalled the cheerleader he’d picked up at the game last night. Sweet seventeen and definitely been fucked. He’d been to watch the LA Lakers with a couple of fellow ex-pats and this fantastic specimen of perky blonde near-jailbait had – well – just thrown herself at him. No other way of putting it. He did love California, despite the weak beer.

But during his run, his mind had been on Bella, Poppy and Damian, all of whom he’d comprehensively shafted the previous year. Ben wasn’t one for an enormous amount of introspection, but even he felt bad about what he’d done.

Bella had been great to start with – fun and sexy, with a healthy appetite for all the good things in life. But once they had that horrible intimacy thing going, she got so bloody needy, and the way she gazed at him with those huge hurt brown eyes made him feel guilty as fuck, especially when he’d shagged the odd model on the odd shoot (a man’s prerogative, he’d always felt – or at least an accepted perk of the job). As an angelic-looking only child, Ben had been spoilt rotten his entire life and wasn’t used to being denied what he wanted.