Though it was funny that somebody so laid-back in most areas of his life could be so sensitive professionally. Despite his success in the men’s magazine world (until now), Poppy knew that Damian was highly ambitious and wanted greater recognition. He was a damned good writer, after all, she thought proudly. Probably the best of the lot of them on Stadium, which had showcased his wit and left-field humour perfectly. She sincerely hoped that this recession would prove an ill wind that blew him some good. Who knew what opportunities New York would throw up?

She took her iPhone out of her new Marc Jacobs handbag and called him, just to hear his voice. It rang for ages but there was no reply. Strange. Damian always answered his phone swiftly, just in case it was a commissioning editor (or Poppy herself). She tried again. Still nothing. Oh, well. Instead, she sent a text.

Hope you’ve had a great day darling husband. Looking forward to seeing you at L’Ambassadeur at 8. Wifey x

She finished her cake and orange juice and went inside to say goodbye to Louis. She’d better go home and get changed. She wanted to make a good impression tonight.

Damian was having the time of his life. Ever since he’d hit London in the late nineties he’d been obsessed with obscure dance and indie music, keeping up with the hippest DJs and latest bands, always to be found backstage at gigs and festivals. None of his friends or men’s magazine cronies would believe it if they could see him now, singing along to cheesy Queen hits with the wild abandon of an alcoholic uncle at a wedding. ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ was going down particularly well.

He and Lars were cheered along by the motley crew of fellow daytime karaoke aficionados that made up their audience. Actually, it was no longer daytime, but most of them had been there since lunchtime. Once the song was over, they prepared to descend from the stage, despite cries of ‘More!’ and ‘Encore!’. The time had come for another drink.

‘Thanks, guys,’ said Damian modestly, taking a bow. ‘But now I think it’s time for somebody else to … to … to … RRRRRRRIP UP THE FLOOR!’ By the time he got to the end of his sentence, he was shouting and waving his mike in the air, to rapturous applause.

‘Darren, my friend,’ slurred Lars. Damian couldn’t be bothered to correct him. ‘Am I glad to have met you, man.’ And without further ado, he slung Damian over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried him to the bar.

Through tears of laughter, Damian started to sing ‘New York, New York’ again, the words muffled against Lars’s huge back.

Lars joined in from somewhere around Damian’s knees, and the rest of the room happily shouted out the chorus. Then there was much shushing as the next singers had mounted the stage, about to give their performance of a lifetime.