‘I eat my sandwiches in the same canteen as Davina McCall.’ That gets him.

I wake up to birds screeching and a swarm of bees hovering threateningly above me. I fully expect to open my eyes and see a fan whirling from the ceiling. It takes me some seconds to understand that my pounding head is not because I’m on set in Apocalypse Now and Again but that the audibility of feathered friends is due to the fact that the windows of the country-house hotel bedroom are wide open. The night before it had been a good idea. I’d insisted on it. Naturally, as I am paying £170 a night (not on expenses), I wanted my money’s worth. Shortbread biscuits, mini bottles of shampoo, shower cap and fresh air.

The swarm of bees turns out to be a Lone Ranger. This is a relief. I survey the room. The debris suggests I had a really good time last night. I move my head a fraction; the hangover confirms it.

I concentrate on focusing: empty champagne bottle, empty mini bar, horizontal wardrobe and handsome stranger in my bed.

A result.

His name eludes me. This is not a disaster but it is an irritation. It seems rude, even by my standards, to ask a man to leave without addressing him on a first-name basis. Big boy, although an adequate term of endearment last night, seems faintly ridiculous in the harsh light of day. I’m saved from immediately confronting this dilemma as the phone rings.

Tring, trinnnnnng, tring, trinnnnnng. The tone is definitely getting more insistent. I feel around for the handset.

‘Cas?’

‘Issie.’ I pull myself on to my elbow. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’

I try to concentrate on her story. It starts well – scored with one of the ushers. But it gets muddled through her tears. Seemingly she had a passion session last night. Peppered with orgasms, blow jobs and him murmuring, ‘You are amazing.’ This morning she’d woken up to him trying to sneak out of her room. She’d asked for his number. He gave her one but it was made up. It was one digit too many.