‘Jack, let me introduce you to my husband, Damian. Damian, I don’t think Jack needs any introduction, do you?’ Poppy was smiling and this bloody lanky bushy-haired twat was holding out his hand to him.

Jack Meadows? For fuck’s sake. He hated rock progeny, with their automatic sense of entitlement, their easy access into worlds utterly out of the reach of anybody born to less famous stock. And what the fuck was he doing here? In his and Poppy’s flat? The fact that Ellie was swooning, all interest in his screenplay lost, helped not a jot.

‘You’re a very lucky man,’ said the twat, smiling at Poppy.

‘So everybody keeps telling me,’ said Damian, unsmiling.

‘Damian,’ hissed Poppy.

‘I’ve got to get another drink. I’m sure you’ll find enough people to talk to you.’

Damian walked away, this time being blatantly rude, and Lars, who had overheard the exchange, said, ‘You mushn’t mind my friend, thish ish hish British sensh of humour. I’m Larsh!’ The six foot four Viking in a gold lamé dress held out his gloved hand, and Jack accepted it with something that looked like relief.

‘Wow, Jack Meadows,’ said Ellie, sweetly. ‘I just love your stuff …’ As she twittered on, Lars said to Poppy, ‘I shall go to Damian.’

‘You do that, I’m almost beyond caring,’ said Poppy, close to tears now. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I bother.’

Lars took her to one side and held her firmly by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. The platinum wig and heavy make-up made it more than a little disconcerting.

‘Your hushband ish a good man. But it is not good for ush men to feel like failuresh. I know for myshelf.’ He looked sad, and Poppy impulsively leant up to give him a hug, covering herself in his lipstick and rouge in the process.

‘Oh, you dear thing, but neither of you are failures, you must see that? It’s just this horrid recession, and as I’m earning silly money now, I don’t see why he can’t just relax and enjoy it until something comes up for him. Damian’s brilliant, he’s not going to be unemployed forever, and his screenplay idea is soooo cool.’

‘You are a clever girl, but you do not undershtand men. I shall go to him.’

‘Thanks so much. I’m getting myself another drink. Tonight was meant to be fun.’

Poppy helped herself to a teacup of strong hooch, where she was waylaid for some time by one of the runners on her show, eager to talk shop. As soon as she could escape, she went back to the kitchen for more champagne – she really wasn’t keen on whatever it was that Damian had elected to put in the cocktails.

On entering the kitchen she was confronted by the perturbing sight of Sandra on her knees, sucking Fabrice’s enormous black cock. Chase and Marco were still sniffing poppers and roaring with laughter.

‘What? I thought you were gay?’

‘I am, babe, I am, but man, she’s good,’ said Fabrice, taking a hearty sniff from the poppers bottle. ‘Man, just like that is gooooooood.’