‘U-huh.’ Only New Yorkers could imbue so few syllables with such disdain. Jojo pulled a golden lock even harder around the round brush. Poppy tried to stay friendly.

‘… and I think that’s kind of what they wanted – you know, for me to keep my – erm – unkempt London essence?’

‘If you think I am letting you out in front of those cameras looking how you looked before, then you are mistaken, Brit chick,’ said Jojo grimly. ‘It’s my reputation on the line here.’

Poppy smiled back sweetly, knowing she’d mess up the Stepford blow-dry as soon as she was out of the Nazi bitch’s hands. It was her hair, and she’d wear it as she bloody well pleased.

Damian stared at his laptop morosely. Still no new messages, unless you counted the endless press releases and PR guff that flooded his inbox daily, as an ex-important journo (he was amazed they didn’t update their files more frequently and put him in the box marked useless). It wouldn’t hurt any of the editors he’d approached to at least acknowledge receipt of his features’ ideas. A ‘thanks but no thanks’ would be preferable to the interminable silence. Apart from anything else it was bloody bad manners. He wasn’t some unknown hack, he was a former Stadium columnist, for fuck’s sake. And he knew most of the editors personally – they had all drunk and snorted together at many a press hooley.

Oh, well. He tried not to let it get to him as he got up off his sun lounger. Wandering over to the bar, he marvelled at the number of New Yorkers able to hang out on Soho House’s roof terrace in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. He imagined that a lot of them were, like him, newly unemployed. Recent victims of the recession. He laughed at himself. Victim wasn’t quite the right word, not when you still had enough dosh for Soho House membership. And he wasn’t the only one grabbing the opportunity to go freelance, which definitely had its perks. Networking in the sunshine over a cocktail or two wasn’t such a bad way to spend your days.

Damian ordered another Manhattan. It seemed appropriate.

‘I’ve got a tab. Um. It’s in my wife’s name. She’s the member.’

Was the bartender ostentatiously hiding a smirk?

‘And your wife’s name, sir?’

‘Poppy Evans-Wallace.’

He knew he was being childish. Poppy had insisted on keeping her maiden name for anything professional, which he was fine with really. That was how she was known in the TV world, after all. As it happened, the barman didn’t even seem to notice the insertion of Evans, as he gave a little yelp.

‘Poppy Wallace? Omigod, I just love her, she’s so cute. They were filming here just a couple weeks back. That show’s gonna be a cult classic, y’know. Have the drink with the compliments of the house, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ Damian smiled, his heart swelling with pride. Even he, who probably loved and admired Poppy more than anybody in the world, hadn’t foreseen her new show being quite such a success. All he had to do was emulate some of that success himself and they’d be sorted. He took his drink from the bartender, thanking him again, and walked back to his sun lounger, fired up and full of fresh resolve to crack New York.