‘I’m not opportunistic,’ I say defensively. ‘I could have sold the story weeks ago, couldn’t I? But I didn’t. It’s not my fault Sage blabbed. And I’ve wanted to be a Hollywood stylist for ever. Can you blame me if I leap at the chance? It doesn’t mean I’m opportunistic.’

Again Jeff is silent. But I know what he’s thinking.

‘Well, what can I do now?’ I say, almost angrily. ‘If April won’t take me to see Lois, then it’s impossible! I can’t say sorry, or offer help, or anything. I don’t even know where she—’

I break off. I’m remembering something that April said, when we were sitting in her trailer. We’ve both lived on Doheny Road for ever.

‘Mitchell,’ I say, leaning forward. ‘Change of plan. I want to go to Doheny Road.’

It takes us about thirty minutes to reach Doheny Road, and as soon as we arrive it’s obvious which house is Lois’s. Journalists are camped outside the gates and prowling up and down the street, and I can see two vox-pop interviews going on. We pull up some way further on, outside a mansion that looks like a Greek temple.

‘Stay in the car, Rebecca,’ says Mitchell. ‘We need to survey the area.’

‘OK.’ I try to sound patient as they clunk the car doors shut and head towards Lois’s house, looking conspicuous in their dark suits. All this ‘surveying’ and ‘securing’ is starting to get on my nerves. Once you get over the novelty, having a bodyguard is a real pain.

I have to sit for ages while they scout around the whole neighbourhood. As they return to the car, their faces are even more sober than usual.

‘The building is currently compromised with the strong presence of media,’ says Mitchell. ‘We foresee a high-risk situation developing. We recommend you do not proceed.’

‘D’you mean not go into the house?’ I clarify.

‘We recommend you do not proceed.’ Mitchell nods. ‘At this time.’

‘But I want to proceed.’

‘Well, we recommend that you do not.’

I glance from Jeff to Mitchell. They look identically serious, with their dark glasses masking any expression they might have (which is probably non-existent to begin with).

‘I’m going to proceed,’ I say defiantly. ‘OK? I need to see Lois Kellerton. I can’t live with myself if I don’t at least try.’

‘Rebecca,’ says Mitchell sternly. ‘If you approach the front of the house, we cannot guarantee your security.’

‘It’s a situation,’ chimes in Jeff, nodding.

I look over their shoulders at the crowd of journalists. It is a bit of a mob. They might have a point.

‘Well, then, I’ll have to break in at the back,’ I say. ‘Will one of you give me a leg-up?’

Jeff and Mitchell exchange glances.

‘Rebecca,’ says Jeff. ‘Under the terms of our contract, we are not permitted to aid you, the client, in any endeavour deemed as law-breaking.’

‘You’re so square!’ I say in frustration. ‘Don’t you get bored, driving around in dark jackets and pretending everything’s serious all the time? Well, OK, I’ll do it by myself. And when I’m arrested, I’ll say: “Mitchell and Jeff had nothing to do with it, Officer.” Happy?’

I grab my bag, slither out of the car and start heading towards Lois’s house, my heels clicking on the road.

‘Rebecca, wait.’ Jeff’s voice follows me.

‘What now?’ I turn. ‘I know, you think I shouldn’t proceed. You’re worse than the bloody sat nav.’

‘Not that.’

‘What, then?’

He hesitates, then says in a low voice, ‘There’s a weak point in the fence by the pool house. CCTV just misses it. Try there.’

‘Thanks, Jeff!’ I beam at him and blow him a kiss.

Lois’s property is so huge, it takes ages to find my way to the back. As I hurry along a side road, I start feeling more and more nervous. I’ve never met anyone suicidal before. I mean, not really suicidal. Shouldn’t I have training or something? Anyway, too late now. I’ll just have to be really gentle. And uplifting and positive. And apologetic, obviously.

What if she blames me for everything?

I feel an uncomfortable twinge. I really, really want Lois to understand that I didn’t tell everyone. OK, I blabbed to Sage, but I told her to keep it a secret.

But what if Lois won’t see it? What if she screams at me? What if she picks up a knife and says she’s going to stab herself right there, in front of me, and I throw myself at her to save her but it’s too late? Oh God …

Feeling slightly ill with all these lurid thoughts, I force myself to keep going. At last I arrive at an eight-foot-high fence, with what must be the pool house on the other side. There’s no way I could climb over it on my own, but after walking back and forth a few times, I see what Jeff meant. Two of the slats are loose. I prise them to one side, exposing a gap. I peer at it incredulously. I’m meant to climb through that? What size does he think I am, minus 20?

But there’s no other option, so I bend down and start squeezing myself through the gap. I can feel the wood scraping my back, and my hair gets caught a few times, and for one awful moment I think I’ll be stuck there for ever. But at last I manage to pop through. (Simultaneously breaking another two slats. In fact, I’ve kind of wrecked this little area of fence. I expect Lois will sue me for that.)

The pool house is about the size of my parents’ house in Oxshott. The pool is pretty huge, too. Then there’s a kind of ornamental hanging garden which looks very weird and out of place and a lawn and a great big terrace with sofas and chairs and then, finally, the house. Which is vast, needless to say.

OK. What do I do now? I suddenly remember Jeff mentioning CCTV and it occurs to me that I’m probably being filmed right now. Argh. I need to move fast, before the attack dogs reach me. I hurry to one side of the plot and make my way cautiously towards the house. My heart is beating fast and I’m expecting to be stopped at any moment. But the way I see it, if I can just get to speak to Lois – even for a second – she’ll know I tried. She’ll know I was thinking of her.

Panting, I reach the terrace and crouch down behind a massive pot containing a fern. Five yards away are the French windows. They’re open. Do I just walk in? What if I freak her out?

Or maybe I should just write a note. Yes. Much better. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. I’ll write a note and leave it on the terrace and creep away, and then she can read it in her own time. I rummage in my bag for my notebook and pen, which I’ve been using to make styling notes. I carefully tear out a page and write the date at the top.

Dear Lois

Oh God. What do I write? How do I put it?

I’m so, so sorry for everything that’s happened. But you must know, I was as shocked as you when Sage exposed you. I told her IN CONFIDENCE.

I underline the last two words several times, and am sitting back on my heels to take stock, when something attracts my attention. It’s a pair of sunglasses, lying on a chair. A pair of Missoni sunglasses. They’re pink and green and swirly and they look exactly like the ones I gave Sage yesterday morning.

They can’t be the same ones. Obviously they can’t be. But—

I stare at the sunglasses, totally baffled. One part of my brain is saying, ‘It’s a coincidence,’ and the other part is saying, ‘It can’t be a coincidence.’ At last I can’t bear it any longer. I have to see. I edge forward and grab the sunglasses off the chair – and there’s no doubt about it. They’re the ones I bought. They have the same rubbed-away bit on the gilt ‘M’ and a tiny chip on one arm.

What are they doing here? Did Sage send them to Lois? But why? And wouldn’t she have mentioned it on the phone earlier? And why would she send sunglasses to Lois, anyway?

My head spinning, I creep forward to put them back – and then freeze. Through the glass of the French windows I can see straight into Lois’s living room. There’s Lois, sitting on a sofa, laughing. And there’s Sage, sitting next to her, passing her a bowl of nachos.

My whole body feels paralysed with shock. Sage? In Lois’s house? But— but— but—

I mean—

That’s just—

I’ve leaned so far forward, trying to see, I suddenly lose my balance, and the sunglasses go clattering on to a glass table. Shit. Shit.

‘Who’s there?’ says Sage sharply, and comes to the French windows. ‘Oh my God, Becky?’

I stare helplessly up at her, unable to reply. I feel as though the world has turned upside down. A few minutes ago, Sage was telling me she didn’t want to see Lois. But she must have been in Lois’s house even while she was talking to me. What is going on? What?

‘Get in here,’ says Sage, glancing around. ‘There aren’t any press following you, are there? What did you do, break in?’

‘Yes,’ I say, getting to my feet, still dazed. ‘I made a bit of a mess of the fence. Maybe someone should see to that. Sorry,’ I add to Lois, who has followed Sage to the French windows. Lois doesn’t look the dishevelled mess I was expecting. She’s wearing long, pale-green wide-legged trousers and a black halter top and her hair is smoothed into a side ponytail. She’s also smoking, which is a bit of a shock. Lois Kellerton doesn’t smoke. I’ve read it in magazines a million times.

‘You look so freaked!’ Sage bursts into laughter as she closes the French windows behind me.

Finally I find my voice. ‘I am freaked! What do you expect?’

‘Poor Becky,’ Sage says kindly.

‘What … I mean …’ I don’t even know where to begin. ‘Don’t you …’

‘You thought we hated each other, right?’ says Sage.

‘Everyone thinks you hate each other!’ I expostulate. ‘Everyone in the world!’

‘Well, we kinda do.’ Sage pushes Lois, whose mouth turns up in a little smile.