The doors of the glass elevator slide open and I take a lurid peach martini from a tuxedoed waiter holding a tray. I think I get this place now. The ride up had revealed that most of the floors were bare – random pieces of old furniture, scuffed floors and walls covered in mouldy, peeling paint. Someone has had the idea of turning the top floor into a luxurious hedonist’s dream – the transparent walls of the lift exist solely to show the guests what was there before, to make them feel elite. It’s an artwork, of sorts, and I try to be impressed, but as I glance around the space, taking in the types of people that are in here, drinking, laughing, sizing each other up, I have a feeling that most of them probably don’t really get it.

I take a sip of my drink, then walk across to a high, glass bar. The whole frontage is completely see-through, highlighting the bare legs of the staff serving on the other side. Above the bar level, they are in crisp white shirts and black bow ties; underneath, their toned, hairfree legs are on full display beneath their skimpy white underpants. I feel a wave of disgust at this, and try hard not to look beneath the counter, but at their faces and their torsos, at their expert hands holding diamante-encrusted cocktail shakers, high-pouring into rows of different-shaped glasses.

A man in an open-necked cream linen shirt, artfully half tucked into dark, perfectly fitted jeans, walks towards me, a look of interest and intrigue on his face as he runs a hand through his floppy blond hair.

Here we go, I think, and drain the rest of my drink. There are pros and cons of dressing to fit your environment and, sadly, this is one of the cons. On another night I might’ve been interested in him, but tonight there’s only one man for me. I turn away from the approaching man and scan the room for Sam, but I can’t see him. I’m not worried. Not yet. I don’t think he will have left while the party is in full swing, and judging by the layout, I expect there are some hidden nooks and crannies for me to explore.

‘Well, good evening,’ the blond man drawls. He is not German, but I can’t place his accent yet.

‘Hello,’ I say, making sure to look him in the eye. ‘Nice party.’

He smirks. ‘Glad you approve.’ He holds out a hand, which is strangely formal in this setting, but I take it anyway and try to hide my confusion. ‘Sorry,’ he says, stepping back again, that smirk still firmly fixed on his face, ‘I’m not sure we’ve met?’

‘Oh.’ I give him a brief, girlish giggle, sure that this is what he wants. ‘A friend invited me … I think he’s already here.’