ilbur takes charge immediately.

“My little Butter-crumpet,” he says gently after a few minutes of relieved sobbing (mine, not his). “It’s lovely to be appreciated, Mini-chickpea. But you’re getting salty water all over my Hermès silk scarf.”

“I can’t believe you’ve come all this way for me,” I say, ignoring his warning and weeping happily into his shoulder.

“Of course I did, my little Pineapple-chunk.” Wilbur pats me on the head, the way you comfort a puppy on firework night. “Fourteen hours squished next to a woman with body odour and wandering feet. Most Fairy Godmothers can just appear, so if that’s not commitment to a cause I don’t know what is. Let me have a look at you.”

Wilbur holds me at arm’s length.

“Twinkle-monkey, now I know something’s wrong. What’s with the yawn-o-gear? Where has my little Munchkin gone?”

I look down at my outfit, and suddenly I feel like somebody’s drained the Harriet Manners out of me.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“Then let’s get her back, my little Sugar-peanut,” Wilbur says. He bends down and unties Kylie, who immediately starts prinking and purring like the contrary little madam she is. Then Wilbur drops a polka-dot holdall on the pavement, climbs on top of the wall and pats the spot next to him.

“I suggest you tell me exactly what the sugar-monkeys has been going on since I last saw you, Teeny-possum.”

I take a deep breath and hop up next to him. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Wilbur nods wisely. “Then begin at the end and work your way through to the front. We can piece the story together from there.”

Over the next hour, I tell Wilbur everything. I tell him about the octopus and the dress, my alarms, oversleeping, the pink shoes, the sumo shoot, smashing the arcade game. I tell him how much Haru hates me. I tell him about my new flatmates. I tell him about Bunty. I even tell him about Nick.

For the first time since I’ve known him, Wilbur listens without a single word.

“OK, Peach-plum-pear,” he says when I finally draw to a flushed halt. “Just one question: is there any chance you’ve been abducted by aliens and that the girl in front of me is actually from a world a billion miles away?”

Exactly what kind of magazines has Wilbur started reading?

“No chance,” I say reluctantly.

“Because that would make it an awful lot easier to get Yuka back on side.”

I remember with a sickening thump that it’s not just me my behaviour has consequences for.

“I’m so sorry, Wilbur. I just don’t think I’m cut out for modelling.”

“Baby-baby Giraffe,” he says firmly, “not a single thing that’s gone wrong has been anything to do with your modelling skills. I thought that you’d have figured that out for yourself by now.”

I stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“Tinkle-berry,” Wilbur says tying the harness back on to the cat and picking his spotty bag up. He swings it over his shoulder like a slightly podgy Huckleberry Finn. “I mean it’s time to find out what the diddle cat is going on.”