I frantically whizzed around the scroll wheel on my iPod, trying to choose a few more tracks that might work on the dancefloor so I could duck outside. Kanye West’s ‘Gold Digger’ would work, and I thanked my Lucky Star that I had Madonna’s Immaculate Collection. I locked in Gnarls Barkley’s ‘Crazy’ and Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ as well. And then, with about ten minutes’ breathing space, I stepped onto the balcony to call Phil, desperately hoping for once that he had his phone on. Fortunately he answered almost immediately.

‘Paulie!’ he shouted over background noise so raucous that my heart immediately sank because I could tell he was mid-gig and unable to come down and bail me out. ‘Ringing to tell me the new music’s knocking the lawyers dead, hey?’

‘Not exactly. I’ve got a problem.’

‘Gear playing up, is it?’

‘No – look, I got it wrong. Turns out the lawyers want to have a good time jumping around to Madonna. And I don’t have the right stuff.’

‘Geez, who knew? I thought your tunes’d go down a treat.’

‘Yeah, well, they aren’t – and it’s kind of a bad night to find that out. I’m in big trouble here, P-Man. I’ve only got what’s on my iPod, and that’s not much. I need your library.’

‘Heh heh. The ol’ MobyDisc collection comes through in the end, eh?’

‘I’ve never needed the Spice Girls more. Where are you?’

‘Jeez, I’m miles away – Hornsby Ex-Services Club.’

‘God, what’ll I do?’

‘Yeah, plus I can’t send anyone else out because all the team’s got gigs tonight. Um, look – give me five to think about it, orright?’

‘I’m dying here boss,’ I said, temporarily forgetting that we didn’t have that relationship anymore. In fact, I’d sighted my current boss not two minutes earlier, obeying Justin Timberlake’s command to rock his body. Brent was having fun for now, but I didn’t want to think about what I’d do if Phil couldn’t come through.

I’d become blasé about the years of experience that had been distilled into the MobyDisc playlist, and my ability to choose songs that kept people happy. If they’re not managed well, a crowd of moderately-to-highly intoxicated people can be a very tough proposition – even if under usual circumstances they’re respectable lawyers. Put on a track they’re not into, and they’ll heckle or boo. Worse still, they can vote with their feet – and there are few more dispiriting sights than an empty dancefloor. There’s nothing worse for a DJ than toiling away, trying to keep your expression free of the embarrassment you feel because you’re playing music to nobody. And I was well on the way to rendering the dancefloor emptier than a Ricky Martin lyric.

I stared intently at the phone, willing it to ring. In the room, Cee-Lo was just about done professing his craziness as the Gnarls Barkley track wound up. I was running out of time. But then, as Ian Curtis started his slightly tuneless warbling, my trusty Nokia lurched to life.

‘Private number’, the screen told me. I was perplexed. It was unlike the P-Man to be private about anything, least of all his phone number, which he chucked around gigs like confetti in the hope of getting more clients. Still, I answered.

‘Hi, is that Paul?’ a female voice asked. ‘It’s Angela here.’

She elongated and rounded the vowels, making a faintly aristocratic name seem all the posher. My mental Rolodex was producing a grand total of zero Angelas, so I asked her if we’d met, to which she laughed melodiously.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Although I must say I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Given the pleasantness of her voice and the alluring tone of her laugh, I was hoping the things she’d heard were very good indeed. And then she explained she was Phil’s ‘partner’.

I’d gathered from our discussion that there was a whole chalk-cheese dynamic happening between my old boss and his new girlfriend, but speaking to her, it seemed like chalk and imported Camembert. Although that analogy would have made Phil not the cheesy one in the relationship, which seemed improbable.

‘I understand you’re in a spot of bother,’ she said, using a tone she might have used to discuss a showjumping misadventure. ‘I’ve got a key to Phil’s place, so if you can meet me there I’ll let you in.’

‘You aren’t too busy? I’d hate to put you out,’ I said. Which was a barefaced lie – I’d have been delighted to inconvenience her if it meant my night wasn’t a disaster.

She laughed. ‘Sadly, evenings without my man around tend to be quieter.’

‘Yeah, I’ve noticed that myself.’

It had just gone nine o’clock and the party was going until one. I estimated it’d take around forty minutes to get to Phil’s and back, so it was a little risky. But not going would be far riskier. By ten, everyone would have drunk so much that they’d be desperate for music I simply couldn’t provide. So I decided to go for it, and told her I’d meet her in a quarter of an hour.

Now I needed to find someone who could hold the fort until I returned, and I didn’t have a lot of options. If the evening’s musical entertainment was going to collapse in a screaming heap, I didn’t want Felicity to be trapped in the wreckage. Whereas Nige wouldn’t care: if his reputation could withstand that 007 parody, it could certainly cope with a bit of DJing.

My friend was delighted to ‘take the decks for a spin’, as he put it.

‘I’m gonna rock the house,’ he informed me.

‘Not exactly. What you’re gonna do is stand there and look like you’re having a good time while my iPod plays music I’ve already chosen.’

‘Come on mate. Have a little faith, eh?’

‘Look, if it was a slightly different crowd, I’d be happy for you to play both of Hunters & Collectors’ greatest hits in succession. But you need to trust me on this.’

‘Yeah, because you understand the vibe so well that you’ve got to run off and get more CDs!’

I conceded the point, but still, I wasn’t going to let him pick the songs. I dredged the depths of my iPod as thoroughly as I could, and put together a quick playlist that I thought might just get us there. Prince’s ‘Kiss’, The Beatles’ ‘Twist and Shout’, and I figured I could get away with James Brown’s ‘Sex Machine’, some Duran Duran and ‘Song 2’ by Blur. After a few frenzied minutes of scrolling, I’d queued up twenty songs, enough for about an hour, and ran for the door just as Nige was putting on the headphones and pretending to be in control.

I reached my car after around forty-five seconds of sprinting, but Felicity had taken only forty to call.

‘What the hell is Nige doing?’ she hissed.

‘I have to rush off and get some more music,’ I said. ‘Trust me.’

‘I’ve already trusted you,’ she said. ‘And you’ve given me Nige.’

‘That’s true, but don’t worry – I’ve programmed in the tracks,’ I said. ‘I even locked the iPod so he couldn’t change anything. He’s just a figurehead so people won’t worry that no one’s choosing the music.’

‘OK, I guess,’ she said. ‘When will you be back?’

‘Aw, you’re missing me already –’

Felicity hung up, evidently not appreciating the flirting. But if I could just get the rest of the music right, she’d come around. Or rather I’d be coming round, to her place. I pulled away from the kerb and fanged it to Phil’s.