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I almost want to laugh at the incongruity of it. What’s she doing here? What’s Alicia Bitch Long-legs doing here, for God’s sake?

One of the men turns round to say something to her – and as I see his face, I think I recognize him, too. He’s another one of the Brandon С lot, isn’t he? One of those eager, baby-faced types.

But what on earth are they all doing here? What’s going on? Surely it can’t be–

They can’t all be here because of–

No. Oh no. Suddenly I feel rather cold.

“Luke!” comes Zelda’s voice from the corridor, and I feel a swoop of dismay. “So glad you could make it. We always love having you on the show. You know, I had no idea you represented Flagstaff Life, until Sandy said.”

This isn’t happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.

“The journalist who wrote the piece is already here,” Zelda’s saying, “and I’ve primed her on what’s happening. I think it’s going to make really great television, the two of you arguing away!”

She starts moving down the corridor, and in the mirror I see Alicia and the eager young man begin to follow her. Then the third overcoated man starts to come in view. And although my stomach’s churning painfully, I can’t stop myself. I slowly turn my head as he passes the door.

I meet Luke Brandon’s grave, dark eyes and he meets mine, and for a few still seconds, we just stare at each other. Then abruptly he looks away and strides down the corridor. And I’m left, gazing helplessly at my painted reflection, feeling sick with panic.

By eleven twenty-five, I’m sitting on a brown upholstered chair in the green room. I’m dressed in a midnight-blue Jasper Conran suit, sheer tights, and a pair of suede high heels. What with my makeup and blown-dry hair, I’ve never looked smarter in my life. But I can’t enjoy any of it. All I can think of is the fact that in fifteen minutes, I’ve got to sit on a sofa and discuss high-powered finance with Luke Brandon on live television.

The very thought of it makes me feel like whimpering. Or laughing wildly. I mean, it’s like some kind of sick joke. Luke Brandon against me. Luke Brandon, with his genius IQ and bloody photographic memory – against me. He’ll walk all over me. He’ll massacre me.

“Darling, have a croissant,” says Elisabeth Plover, who’s silting opposite me, munching a pain аu chocolat. “They’re simply sublime. Every bite like a ray of golden Provençal sun.”

“No thanks,” I say. “I... I’m not really hungry.”

I don’t understand how she can eat. I honestly feel as though I’m about to throw up at any moment. How on earth do people appear on television every day? How does Fiona Phillips do it? No wonder they’re all so thin.

“Coming up!” comes Rory’s voice from the television monitor in the corner of the room, and both our heads automatically swivel round to see the screen filled with a picture of the beach at sunset. “What is it like, to live with a gangster and then, risking everything, betray him? Our next guest has written an explosive novel based on her dark and dangerous background ...”

“…And we introduce a new series of in-depth discussions,” chimes in Emma. The picture changes to one of coins raining onto the floor, and my stomach gives a nasty flip. “Morning Coffee turns the spotlight on the issue of financial scandal, with two leading industry experts coming head-to-head in debate.”

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