I’ve never been anywhere like CAA in my life. The building is like some sort of spaceship in which all the men are from Men in Black and all the girls are from Vogue and all the sofas are from Architectural Digest. Just sitting in the lobby for five minutes was a better Hollywood experience than the entire Sedgewood Studios tour. I saw three girls from Gossip Girl, and a cool rapper guy feeding his tiny puppy with a milk dropper, and two famous TV comedians having a huge, sotto voce row about something called ‘back end’, while continuing to smile at a very pretty girl on reception. (I’m not sure of their names. I think maybe they’re both called Steve Something.)

And now I’m sitting in this very smart boardroom-type place, at a smooth, pale wooden table, and listening to two women talk to me. One’s called Jodie and the other’s called Marsha and they’re both ‘talent’ agents. Apparently I’m the ‘talent’. Me! ‘Talent’! Wait till I tell Luke that.

They’re very smart and very intense. They’re both dressed immaculately in a sleek-navy-Prada-ish-high-maintenance sort of style. One has got a vast diamond on one finger and I’m so mesmerized by it, I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. Except I keep being jerked back to attention by words like ‘fanbase’ and ‘global appeal’.

‘Reality,’ says the dark-haired woman, who is either Jodie or Marsha. ‘What’s your opinion on that?’

‘Er …’

I want to reply, ‘I’ve totally lost my grip on it,’ but I sense that’s not the right answer. I sip my iced water, which is so freezing it gives me an instant headache. Why do Americans like their drinks so cold? Are they descended from Eskimos or something? Ooh, maybe they are. Maybe they migrated down from Alaska, millions of years ago. It makes total sense. Have I hit on a whole new theory of human evolution?

‘Becky?’

‘Yes!’ I come back to the room. ‘Definitely! Um, what exactly do you mean by “reality”?’

‘A reality show,’ says Jodie-or-Marsha, patiently. ‘We think we could package a great show as a vehicle for you, your family, your quirky British friends …’

‘You mean, cameras would be following us around the whole time?’

‘It would be semi-scripted. It’s less intrusive than you might think.’

‘Right.’

I try to imagine sitting in the kitchen with Luke, acting out a semi-scripted scene for the cameras. Hmm.

‘I’m not totally sure my husband would like that,’ I say at last. ‘But I can ask him.’

‘Another format we have available is “BFFs in Hollywood”,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie. ‘You would be working with a young actress named Willa Tilton. The concept is, two best friends making it in Hollywood, confiding in each other, shopping for clothes, appearing on the red carpet, getting into scrapes. You would be the married one and Willa would be the single one. I think it would have a lot of appeal.’

‘I think they’d work well together as best friends,’ Jodie-or-Marsha agrees.

‘But Willa Tilton isn’t my best friend,’ I say, confused. ‘I’ve never met her. My best friend is called Suze.’

‘She would be your best friend for the camera,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie, as though I’m slightly subnormal. ‘It’s a reality show.’

‘OK,’ I say, still confused. ‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

I take another sip of water, trying to get my head together. Somehow I can’t take any of this seriously. Me? On a reality show? But as I look from Jodie to Marsha (or the other way round), I realize they’re genuine. They wouldn’t give me the time of day unless they meant it.

‘In the meantime, we have the Breakfast Show USA segment,’ says Jodie-or-Marsha, ‘which will be very high profile. Now, do you have an assistant?’

‘No,’ I say, and the two women exchange looks.

‘You might think about getting yourself one,’ says Marsha-or-Jodie.

‘Your life is going to start feeling a little different,’ adds Jodie-or-Marsha.

‘Make sure you have some camera-ready outfits.’

‘Consider getting your teeth whitened.’

‘And you could lose a pound or two.’ Marsha-or-Jodie smiles kindly. ‘Just a thought.’

‘Right.’ My head is whirling. ‘OK. Well … thanks!’

‘It’s a pleasure.’ Jodie-or-Marsha pushes back her chair. ‘Exciting, huh?’

As I’m walking along one of the museum-style corridors with an assistant called Tori (dressed head to toe in Chloé), I hear a little shriek behind me. I turn and see Sage skittering along the corridor, her arms outstretched.

‘Beckeeeeee! I’ve missed youuuuuu!’

I blink in astonishment. Sage is wearing the skimpiest outfit I’ve ever seen. Her bright-blue polka-dot top is basically a bikini top, and her tiny frayed hot pants are more like knickers.

Plus, what does she mean, she’s missed me?

As she throws her arms around me, I inhale the smell of Marc Jacobs Grapefruit and cigarettes.

‘It’s been so long! We have so much to talk about! Are you done here? Where are you going now?’

‘Just home,’ I say. ‘I think they’re organizing me a car.’

‘Noooo! Ride with me!’ She takes out her phone and punches something into it. ‘My driver will take you home, and we can chat.’

‘Becky, are you OK with Sage?’ says Tori. ‘You don’t need a car?’

‘I guess not,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’

‘We’re good now,’ says Sage to the girl who was accompanying her. ‘We’ll see ourselves out. We have to talk!’ Sage hits the button for the lift and links arms with me. ‘You are so hot right now. We’re both hot,’ she adds with satisfaction, as we get in. ‘You know they’re begging me to do Florence Nightingale? Your husband thinks I should take it. But you know, I have a lot of propositions right now. Playboy offered me a gazillion.’ She takes out some gum and offers it to me.

‘Playboy?’

‘I know, right?’ She shrieks with laughter. ‘I need to hit the gym if I’m doing that.’

I blink in surprise. She’s doing it? I can’t believe Luke or Aran want Sage to do Playboy.

‘Cute shades,’ she adds, looking at my Missonis, which are propped up on my head. ‘You were wearing them on Saturday, right? The press was all over them.’

She’s right. There were pictures of me in my Missonis in all the tabloids, and on millions of websites. It’s all so surreal. When I look at the photos, it doesn’t feel like me. It feels like some other person out there, posing as ‘Becky Brandon’.

But that is me. Isn’t it?

Oh God, it’s too confusing. Do celebrities ever get used to being two people, one private and one public? Or do they just forget about the private one? I’d ask Sage, only I’m not sure she’s ever had a private life.

‘They’re so unique.’ Sage is still fixated on my shades. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘They’re vintage. You can have them, if you like,’ I add eagerly, and hand them over.

‘Cool!’ Sage grabs them and puts them on, admiring her reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift. ‘How do I look?’

‘Really good.’ I tweak her hair a bit. ‘There. Lovely.’

At last! I’m styling a Hollywood film star, just like I wanted to in the first place.

‘You’re smart, Becky,’ Sage says. ‘This is a great fashion story. I’m wearing the shades you had on two days ago. The press will love it. This will be everywhere.’

That’s not why I gave them to her, but I suppose she’s right. I suppose she thinks about everything in terms of the press. Is that how I have to start thinking, too?

We emerge on the ground floor, and Sage leads me straight to a big guy in a blue blazer, who is sitting on a chair in a corner. He has Slavic features and huge shoulders and doesn’t smile. ‘This is Yuri, my new bodyguard,’ says Sage blithely. ‘Do you have security, Becky?’

‘Me?’ I laugh. ‘No!’

‘You should totally think about it,’ she says. ‘I had to hire Yuri after I got mobbed at home. You can’t be too careful.’ She glances at her watch. ‘OK, shall we go?’

As we head out of the building, I feel a jolt of shock. A cluster of waiting photographers immediately start calling out, ‘Sage! This way, Sage!’ They weren’t there earlier.

‘How did they know you’d be here?’ I say in bewilderment.

‘You give them your schedule,’ Sage explains in an undertone. ‘You’ll get into it.’ She hooks her arm more firmly around mine, and dimples in a smile. Her long, golden legs look amazing, and the Missoni shades clash brilliantly with her polka-dot top.

‘Becky!’ I hear a shout. ‘Becky, over here, please!’ Oh my God, I’ve been recognized! ‘Beckeee!’

The shouts are growing into a chorus. All I can hear is, ‘Becky! Sage! Here!’ Sage is playfully adopting pose after pose, most with her arm around me. A couple of tourists approach, and with a charming smile, Sage scribbles autographs for them. It takes me a moment to realize they want mine, too.

After a while, a blacked-out SUV appears, and Sage skips along to it, accompanied by Yuri. We get in, the photographers still clustering around us, and the driver manoeuvres away.

‘Oh my God.’ I sink back into the leather seat.

‘You should hire security,’ says Sage again. ‘You’re not a civilian any more.’

This is unreal. I’m not a civilian any more! I’m one of them!

Sage is flipping through channels on the in-car TV, and she pauses as her own face comes into view, with the headline, Sage speaks out.

‘Hey! Check it out!’ She cracks open a Diet Coke, offers one to me and turns up the volume.

‘I feel personally betrayed by Lois,’ the on-screen Sage is saying. ‘I feel she’s let me down, not just as a fellow actor but as a woman and as a human being. If she has problems, then I feel for her, but she should deal with those in an appropriate manner, not inflict them on others. You know, we were once friends. But never again. She’s let down the entire profession.’