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Freddy adjusts shirt cuffs, ruffles his brown hair on top to sit in different directions and frowns at his handsome face.

I give mirrored Freddy an eyebrow raise. ‘Must be nice.’

‘What must be nice?’ Freddy asks.

‘Being pleased with your reflection.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Freddy’s frown fades. ‘I worked for it. I was skinny as a kid. And badly dressed. Hammersmith isn’t known for its fine tailoring.’

‘You grew up in the London suburbs? I would have thought you grew up in some penthouse apartment with a view of Buckingham Palace.’

‘Not at all. My dad was a struggling artist. He worked on building sites to get by. Didn’t have a pot to piss in until I bought him one.’ Freddy jabs the number seven on the elevator control panel.

‘Wow. I didn’t know they sold solid gold piss pots. Where are we going, exactly?’

‘Have you ever heard of High Style magazine?’

‘No.’

Freddy laughs. ‘That was supposed to be a rhetorical question. Everyone’s heard of High Style magazine. How about Indira Brown? Have you heard of her? Former supermodel, and now the fashion editor at High Style?’

‘Who?’

‘Do you live under a stone?’

‘No. I just work in publishing.’

‘High Style is London’s premier fashion magazine, and its offices just happen to be in this building.’ The elevator doors ping open, and Freddy stands aside to let me out. ‘On this very floor.’

‘Isn’t it a little tacky to share your skyscraper with another business?’

‘Au contraire, Katerina.’ Freddy takes a wide, proud stance. ‘It’s perfect networking. Sharing the elevator with High Style has landed us great publicity over the years. I’m friends with all the female staff –’

‘How many have you slept with?’

‘I don’t keep count. That’s crass.’

‘I think it’s pretty crass to have slept with so many women that you might lose count.’

‘The point is, I’m on great terms with Indira – ex-supermodel, fashion editor and narcissist who is both a pain in the arse and a total genius. She’ll be happy to dress you. And relieved. She hates seeing people in bad clothing.’

‘I wouldn’t call my clothes bad, exactly –’

Freddy answers with a curt laugh.

‘Why would this person dress me, anyway?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know her.’

‘She owes me a favour.’

We head out into a lemon-fragranced reception area, where Freddy immediately starts cruising for dates. He stands beside the curved, granite desk, giving appraising smiles and flashing his Rolex at passing females.

Finally, a leggy receptionist gives Freddy an access card to a secure, opaque door.

‘Welcome to the High Style wardrobe room.’ Freddy opens the door and gestures to a space the size of Faith and Doyles ladies’ department, but with five times the clothes stuffed onto the rails.

‘It looks like an upmarket TK Maxx.’ I eye up hundreds of garments, crammed onto golden racks.

Towards the back of the room, there is a pink, crushed velvet sofa, a spotlit mirror, a table of fruit and vegetable platters and the most stunning woman I have ever seen.