The Stylist. Rosie Nixon

I heard him move away.

      ‘Thanks, honey, you’re a babe.’ Her pretty eyes were wet with tears.

      ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

      ‘I don’t think so.’ She sniffed.

      ‘Well, if you want to talk about it …’ I perched on the edge of the bed. She seemed to want me there.

      ‘Really?’ she snivelled, as though no one had ever offered her support before.

      ‘Really. Er—a problem shared …’

      I put an uncertain hand onto her thin, childlike shoulder, wondering if there was a law against making physical contact with a vulnerable, crying, miniature celebrity. It wouldn’t have surprised me if AJ had her wired.