he good news is: I’m alive.

The even better news is that by the time the car finally stops and I fall out of the back-seat door, sweating profusely and breathing through my mouth, I’ve done all my physics revision for the next two weeks.

And a tiny bit of biology.

Plus a few particularly difficult maths problems and a little of Jasper’s A-level history project about the Cold War, just for the fun of it.

It was a very productive three and a half hours.

And also by far the most terrifying of my entire life.

“See?” Deepika says as I collapse on the kerb with wobbly legs and wait for my adrenalin levels to return to normal again. “All in one piece.”

She obviously can’t see the contents of my stomach or head. Or the bad dreams about five-thousand-kilo trucks I’ll be having for the next five years.

“I’m afraid we’ve got to get moving,” she says smoothly, bending down to help me up. “I don’t want to sound heartless, but we have –” she looks at her watch again – “twenty-three minutes before this shoot starts.”

Blimey. Even Yuka wasn’t this punctual.

My hands are still shaking, my head is still spinning, but I am a professional I am a professional I am a professional …

“Of course,” I say, standing up with a slight totter and smoothing my decidedly sweaty and sticky black Lycra clothes out. “Please lead the way.”

We walk down a tiny back street.

It’s a lot quieter here: ornate, mismatched, slightly dishevelled, but with noble and intricate buildings in pinks and pale greens and oranges that lean against each other on a dusty, pale grey road.

It looks ancient but incredibly charming.

OK, India: I think we got off on the wrong foot.

Let’s start again.

“So where exactly are we?” I ask as I’m led through tiny, winding streets: the air warm and thick with the smell of flowers and incense and spices and – I’m just going to say it – cow poop. “What is this place?”

“This is Mathura,” Deepika says, gliding half a step in front of me. “It’s the birthplace of Krishna and one of India’s seven holy cities.”

“Krishna? As in, the eighth incarnation of the Hindu god Vishnu, usually portrayed as a blue-skinned child with a flute?”

Deepika glances over her shoulder at me.

“I did a project on him for religious education in Year Three,” I explain quickly. “We had to pick a deity to write about.”

Actually, that sounds kind of disrespectful, doesn’t it? Your deeply held beliefs neatly summarised and written down in my folder? TICK.

“That’s the one.” She takes a smooth turn into an even smaller back alley and we have to wedge our way past an enormous cow, placidly blocking the path. “In that case, you must know what day it is today.”

I really, really don’t. Curse you, Year Three project.

Despite your A+ grade, you’ve totally let me down.

Sadly I’ve got way too much pride to ask so I nod earnestly as if I do and hope somebody drops a more specific hint later.

With an abrupt twist, Deepika draws to a stop, knocks on a small green door and pushes it open.

It’s a packed restaurant, full of intense spicy smells, of bright clothes, of loud noise, of warm smiles. “Namaste!” somebody shouts, followed by a chorus of “Aapka swagat hai!” “Kya chal rahaa hai?”“Aap kaise hain?”

“No time,” Deepika says firmly, politely pushing through the room and glancing at her watch. “Sorry, guys. Later.”

“Awwww,” a young man says cheerfully, as I smile shyly at everyone. “Deeps, you’re no fun now you’re important.”

Deepika flicks an unimpressed hand at him.

Then she speeds up: leading me into a tiny, turquoise-painted and peeling room in the back into which they’ve somehow managed to stuff six people.

“You must be Harriet!” a woman says, taking my satchel off me. “Just in time!”

“You cut that a bit fine, Deepika,” another lady says, holding a foundation pallet up against my face. “We thought you were going to miss it.”

“This is going to be the fastest styling ever.”

I blink at them, then at Peter Trout: leaning against a wall in a totally different but really very similar denim jacket to the one I saw him in last, holding a plain can of drink.

He nods at me, then leaves the room.

I’m starting to wonder if he really took in any of my Fizzy Drink project: it’s very hot, and sugar and caffeine can actually dehydrate you further.

“Right,” Deepika says, glancing at the clock on the wall and gently pushing me into a chair, “we have thirteen minutes. Let’s go.”