Nikki, who had been flirting in the studio with the photographer for the past five minutes, pranced in, still topless in her hot-pink thong and stripper shoes, and made a beeline for Sam. Sam wished Nikki would put some clothes on. Even though she took her own off for a living, she found Nikki’s piercing-flaunting brazenness a bit disconcerting – almost as though she were challenging everybody with whom she came into contact with her hard little body and even harder little face.

‘Babes,’ said Nikki, her voice full of faux concern. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your fella. How are you bearing up?’

‘What? Why? What’s happened to him?’ asked Sam, with alarm. The glamour-modelling world was small, and Mark, as Stadium’s ex-art director, was a fairly big cheese. She was sure Nikki had been jealous of her relationship with him, but maybe she’d been doing her a disservice.

‘Oh, my God. You didn’t know? Oh, babes …’ Nikki put a hand on Sam’s arm, her long, squared-off nail extensions an acid orange against Sam’s smooth skin. Sam shook it off.

‘Didn’t know what? Nikki, you’re scaring me now. Please, just tell me what I don’t know about Mark.’ Sam tried to stop her voice rising in panic. Had he been in some sort of accident or something?

‘Karolina Kristova. Saint-Tropez. On the Linda Lovelace boat.’ Nikki could barely keep the glee out of her voice. ‘They were at it all night. If it’s any consolation, hon, she’s a right slapper …’ That’s rich coming from you, thought Sam numbly. ‘She’s hardcore – anal, rimming, roasting, whatever …’

‘How do you know?’

‘Oh, babes.’ Nikki looked at her pityingly. ‘Everyone knows.’

Sam pushed her away, and, after picking up her handbag, walked out of the studio with all the dignity she could muster.

‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ Nikki shouted after her. ‘She spells her name K-R-I-S-T-O-V-A …’

Once she had put some distance between herself and the bitch from hell, Sam tried to decide what to do. Should she call Mark, confront him with it? No, she was meeting him shortly anyway, and she wanted to see his face when she asked him if it was true.

The studio was in Hoxton, conveniently close to the bar/restaurant/club they were planning to meet at that evening (Divine Comedy was owned by Bella’s brother, Max, and it was the place to see and be seen). Sam had time to kill so decided to stop at a greasy spoon for a strong cup of tea to try to get her thoughts together.

Would Marky really cheat on her? She wasn’t naïve – her exposure to the seedy glamour world had left her with few illusions about men. But Mark had told her time and time again how much he loved her, and he never seemed to tire of her ripe young body. She had a vivid memory of him lazily kissing her all over, just after they’d both had the most amazing orgasms, and saying, ‘Fuck, man, I am the luckiest geezer in the world.’