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No one else had comments like that. The lads were all about their looks, the man pretended to grate cheese on Damon’s abs and compared Marc’s biceps to two juicy melons.

Then Layla and Sam’s were a little more suggestive but they didn’t say they’d shag whoever bid for them.

I didn’t sign up to be auctioned like an escort.

I’m fuming and it obviously shows on my face as the auctioneer says, “Smile love, you’ll catch more bids with honey.

” It’s then I realise that, so far, no one has raised their paddle to bid for me.

That’s outrageous! I always thought if I were ever to be a sex worker, I’d be a high-class, expensive one.

I, reluctantly, plaster on a smile and try to look like I’m having fun.

I notice someone very slowly raising their paddle. This is so humiliating.

“Come on,” the auctioneer shouts. “Remember, it’s for charity!

” It’s not clear, at this point, whether he means being charitable to sad old me, or the actual charity.

A few more bids come in but I’m struggling to keep this fake grin plastered on my face.

Eventually I’m ‘sold’ to a man who comes up and whispers in my ear, “I bought you as a divorce present to myself, my wife left me for her personal trainer, but you can’t leave a date if I’ve paid for it, eh?

Let me get a quick selfie – I want to send it to Susan so she can see what she’s missing, leaving me for Carlos, her tennis coach. ”

I look at him, realising I probably won’t have to worry about wandering hands on our date, but I might be in danger of being bored to death.

This man is talking so much about his ex and how no one else will perfect Coq au Vin like she did, that I almost forget I’m still on stage and meant to be looking delighted.

I give him Fliss’s number to arrange our date and hope that he loses it.

I step off the stage, feeling deflated and ready to go home as soon as I’m allowed to.

We’re always told, when we’re representing the show, how long it’s been agreed we will stay at these parties for.

Normally, it’s not a problem, as they’re parties with free drinks and I always stay way longer than promised.

But tonight, I just want to go curl up in bed, hopefully with a cuddle from Damon, and pretend today never happened.

Speaking of the devil, Damon comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling my bum into his crotch. “I’d pay a fortune for you,” he whispers in my ear.

“That was so humiliating, Damon.”

“At least your date has teeth,” he says.

“Aw she’s a cute old lady,” I reply. “I bet she’ll be fun.”

“Yeah just what every young stud wants on a date. Varicose veins and a blue rinse. Anyway, I knew you’d need cheering up after you wound up with that guy who’s told everyone his sob story about his ex-Mrs, and I’ve got just the thing to take your mind off it all.”

He’s read my mind, I think. He’s going to come back to the hotel with me, spoon me and stroke my hair until I fall asleep and then, in the morning, we’ll order breakfast to the room and have a lazy, Sunday morning shag in the golden light…

“Quickie in the toilets?”

Five minutes later my knees are cold, as I kneel on cool tiles in front of Damon in the disabled loos. From the smell, someone definitely has had a recent curry poo in here.

“Come on, baby, I’m ready for you,” he’s saying. “No one does it like you, no one.”

He thinks this is a compliment but all it does is remind me of just how many blow jobs he’s received over the last few months. How many women am I being compared to? Ten? Twenty? One hundred?

I begin grasping his shaft and teasing the head.

He’s groaning, a guttural sound, his body tensed and I must admit, I do enjoy giving a blow job.

And I reckon I’m damn good. But, as I get ready to finish, I notice something.

Why is his tan all patchy around his inner thighs?

I test him, deep throating, taking all of him in.

“Yes, baby, yes” he cries out and he’s fucking lucky that I don’t, in that very moment, bite down on his cock.

Because, going that deep, my chin brushes up against his thighs, right where the tan has been wiped off, leaving white stripes against the mahogany.

I remember Crystal’s face, from earlier.

The tan across her mouth. I open my own mouth and stand up.

“Aw, baby, why did you stop?” he’s panting at me, pushing me back down.

“Did you fuck that tanner while I was in the bath?” I yell. The confusion that passes across his face tells me all I need to know. He’s not confused by the question but confused as to how I figured it out, I can tell. “What? How?” he splutters.

“Top tip: if you’re going to shag your tanner, maybe do it before she sprays you, not after. Your downstairs needs a bit of a tidy up,” I say and run out of the cubicle.

Back in the ballroom, the tables have been cleared and a glittery dancefloor has been set up.

Layla and Madison are the only ones on it, faux sexy dancing with each other and whooping at the DJ, telling him to put some Britney on.

Everything, all of a sudden, seems clear.

Like that disabled toilet was actually a magical portal, there to show me how I’ve been going wrong, up until now, and how to change it.

I have to leave Damon behind, the disabled loo is my past and I need to walk towards my glittering future.

And there it is, in the form of Morgan McHugh, just stepping onto the dance floor, lit up in purple light, doing a dance move that looks like a cross between the robot and the running man.

Never mind, Aladdin’s genie was quite odd too and he granted him his wishes.

I’m going to have the glow up to end all glow ups and make a million quid doing it.

Damon is going to regret ever making a fool of me, he’ll be begging me to take him back and all I’ll do is laugh in his face.

I walk past Madison and Layla, batting off their requests to join them, and go straight up to Morgan.

“I’ve got a business proposal for you, and I think you’ll want to hear it.”