A Night In With Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday

Nora. I really, properly matter to him.’

      ‘Which is great, Lib. And I’m so, so happy for you. I just don’t want to see you getting hurt.’ There’s the briefest of pauses before she adds a light but meaningful, ‘again’.

      ‘There’s no way, Nora, that I could possibly get hurt.’

      Though even as I say this, the Ribbony Elasticky thing starts riding, well, upwards in a manner that’s only going to get more painful if it goes any further. So it’s just possible that Nora might have a point, even if it’s not quite in the way she was meaning it.

      ‘OK, but after what happened with You Know Who, and all the bloody chaos he caused—’

      ‘Talking of chaos,’ I say, smoothly interrupting before we get diverted down the Dillon alleyway, from where it’s always difficult to escape, ‘you spent so long asking me about Dad’s wedding yesterday that you didn’t actually tell me anything about your wedding.’ Nora is getting married in five weeks’ time, to her lovely fiancé Mark. ‘Any news? Any updates? Anything your devoted and dedicated chief bridesmaid can do to help?’

      ‘Actually, that’s partly why I’m calling,’ Nora says. ‘I forgot to ask yesterday, and I know you’re really busy these days, Lib … but do you think you might be able to spare a couple of hours to go bridesmaid’s dress shopping with Tash one day this week?’

      Tash, apart from being Olly’s motorbike-ride buddy, is going to be Nora’s only other non-family bridesmaid.

      ‘I thought maybe you could take along the dress you’ve already chosen for yourself, and try to help her find something that would co-ordinate … I’ll try and come along with you guys too,’ she adds, perhaps proving that she’s noticed that Tash and I, though perfectly amiable together, haven’t quite gelled enough for a girlie shopping trip à deux. ‘If Olly doesn’t need me to run any errands for him at the same time.’

      ‘Happy to, Nora. I’ll make a bit of time whenever Tash can do it.’

      ‘Thanks, Lib. And talking of Tash, I’d better get going … we’re heading into the West End for a bite to eat tonight. Probably the only chance I’ll get to show her the bright lights before we become Olly’s menials for the next few evenings.’

      ‘Sure, of course. You go.’

      ‘And good luck with Adam tonight!’ she adds. ‘But you won’t need it. I’m sure he won’t be able to keep his steady, dependable, teak-garden-furniture-protecting hands off you.’

      We can but hope.

      And we’ll find out sooner than I’d thought, because I’ve only just slipped my phone back into my bag when I hear a key in the front door.

      This isn’t a late night! It’s barely gone eight! What did they do at this work dinner: sip sparkling water, nibble a small selection of sushi, turn down coffee and then pay the bill?

      Well, there’s no time to find all this American professionalism and healthy living irritating: thank God, I’m all ready and (barely) dressed, so all I need to do is arrange myself as seductively as possible on one of the uncomfortable chairs, attach what I hope is a come-hither smile, and—

      ‘I don’t see why I had to come over and help you find the bloody thing,’ comes a voice from the hallway. ‘Couldn’t you do it on your own?’

      It’s not Adam.

      It’s Posh James Cadwalladr.

      ‘OK, OK, but I feel weird about coming into Adam’s house all by myself. We don’t know him that well.’

      And this, I recognize straight away, is Lottie Cadwalladr, my brand-new stockist.

       Shit.

      I can’t make a dash for the stairs, because they’re out in the hallway, where the Cadwalladrs have just let themselves in. I can’t make a dash for the bifold doors that lead into the garden, because they’re locked and I don’t have time to look for the key. It would be absolutely useless to get on my hands and knees under the table because it’s made of bloody Perspex …

       What the hell am I going to do?

      As the kitchen door starts to open, I make the only choice I have available to me: a dash to Fritz’s den, where I should be able to hide myself away until the Cadwalladrs have found whatever it is they’re looking for, and buggered off back to their own property again.

      I jump up from the table, sprinting to the nook by the cooker, and, despite my heels, leap the safety gate in a rather impressive single bound.

      ‘… quite sure Adam didn’t bring that one over in Fritz’s bag of stuff, when he dropped him off?’ Posh James is asking, as two pairs of footsteps – one heavy and male, one lighter and ballet-pump-wearing, make their way on to the marble floor. ‘Weren’t there about half a million squeaky toys in there?’

      ‘Not the green and white one,’ says Lottie, before adding, ‘Go on, Fritzy! Go find your toy! Go find!’

      Hang on: they’ve brought Fritz with them, too?

      I don’t even need to ask myself the question, because there’s a pitter-pattering of doggy feet across the marble floor, and a moment later I’m gazing, from my crouched position behind the safety gate, deep into Fritz’s chocolate-brown, adoring, eyes.

      He starts – surprise, surprise – barking.

      ‘Fritz, no!’ I whisper, flapping my hands at him. ‘Go away! I don’t have any pâté! Ich habe,’ I hazard, in desperation, dredging up the German I studied, half-heartedly, when I was fourteen years old, ‘kein pâté!’

      Mentioning pâté was, with hindsight, a mistake, in either language.

      Fritz goes berserk.

      ‘What the fuck’s he barking about now?’ I can just about hear Posh James saying over the torrent of noise Fritz is making.

      ‘The toy must be in his den,’ I hear Lottie say. ‘Clever boy!’

      His toy! His green and white squeaky toy! That’ll get rid of him. I see it in here, nestling to the side of his (Alessi) bowl, grab it and then, making sure I lean right through the bars of the safety gate for maximum distance, skim the bloody thing as far away across the kitchen floor from the den, and me, as it’ll go.

      Which makes not the slightest difference. Fritz could no longer care less about his squeaky toy, not when his beloved Bringer Of Pâté is right here before him, cornered behind his safety gate. Besides, now that I’ve made the mistake of putting my head through the bars to chuck his toy, he’s licking my face, practically water-boarding me with meaty-smelling saliva.

      It’s a bit gross, and I can’t pull my head back through the bars fast enough.

      Except I can’t pull my head back through the bars at all.

      I’m serious. I can’t get my head out.

      It makes no sense … I mean, I got my head through them one way, didn’t I?

      Unless it’s the Marilyn Monroe earrings. These great, big, chandelier-style Marilyn Monroe earrings. Jamming up against the outside of the bars, making it impossible for me to squeeze my head back through.

      Just as this horrible fact dawns on me, a pair of leopard-print French Sole ballet pumps comes past the range cooker and stops, abruptly, right in front of me.

      ‘Oh, dear God,’ says Lottie Cadwalladr, about four feet above my head.

      Which sums it up pretty neatly, really.

      ‘James!’ she goes on, in a horrified voice. ‘Come quick! Adam’s got some woman … imprisoned back here!’

      ‘Some woman?’ echoes Posh James.

      ‘No,