You’re allowed to ask for what you want.

‘… could have done a lot of damage. Faith, you must check with me before you—’

You’re allowed to say stop and no.

‘… had a huge impact on peers and public. Everyone is rallying behind—’

It’s called having boundaries.

‘… given your brand an unexpected edge. You’re no longer the generic beautiful girl—’

You keep going ‘crazy’ because you don’t have any.

‘… in PR terms you’ve pulled a one-eighty—’

So everyone just pushes and pulls at you.

‘… offers flooding in – pick any role you want—’

Until you either explode or run.

‘… the world is your oyster—’

‘Do you know where that saying comes from?’ I interrupt.

Then I put Persephone on speakerphone and prop my mobile on my knees. I stare blankly out of the taxi window into the darkness. ‘It’s from Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor. I watched it six times when Mum played Falstaff in an all-female production.’

It’s the first thing I’ve said this whole journey.

‘Well, yes!’ Persephone sounds waaaay more enthusiastic than she normally does. ‘And it’s true! It’s—’

‘Do you know what it means?’ The taxi turns a corner. ‘It means you have to struggle to prise life open with a knife and even then there’s only a tiny chance of finding a pearl.’

‘How interesting—’

‘But we stick The World Is Your Oyster on everything as if it means that we can have anything we want, whenever we want it. And it’s not true.’

‘That’s very—’

The taxi pulls up outside the gates of the Valentine mansion.

‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ I say, ending the call.

There are more paparazzi here than I have ever seen before in my life. Dozens and dozens huddled together in the dark. As soon as they spot the taxi, they start yelling, waving their arms, taking photos.

Flash flash flash flash.

I swallow, hard.

‘Miss Valentine?’ The taxi driver glances at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Do you want me to take you somewhere else?’ Flash flash flash. ‘Literally anywhere else?’

‘It’s OK, thank you.’ With shaking hands, I smooth down my dress. ‘I’ve got this.’

I reach out of the window – flash – and type in the security code on the gate pad, and, with a click, the gates swing open.

The paps swarm through and the taxi crawls up the driveway with them all running next to us. They’re shouting, banging on the car doors, racing towards the elaborate front steps of my home.

We stop and I take a slow, deep breath. Then I open the taxi door and climb out, holding the little plastic robot tightly in one clenched fist.

You get to make the rules.

‘FAITH! FAITH! RSS IS THREATENING TO TAKE LEGAL ACTION – DO YOU HAVE A RESPONSE?’

‘HAVE YOU SPOKEN TO DAME SYLVIA?’

‘WAS THIS A POLITICAL MOVE? HOW LONG DID YOU PLAN IT?’

‘DID DYLAN HARRIS HELP YOU?’

Slowly, I walk barefoot through the paparazzi in my floaty, filthy evening gown until I’m standing on the top step. Then I turn to face them.

‘OR,’ someone yells helpfully, ‘ARE YOU HAVING A FULL MENTAL BREAKDOWN, JUST LIKE YOUR MUM?’

There’s silence while I search for my own words. Because this time there’s no script and no pre-approved answers. This time I won’t be hushed or talked over, I won’t be spoken for and I won’t keep my mouth shut any more.

My voice is mine. It’s up to me to use it.

‘Hello,’ I say clearly. ‘I am Faith Valentine.’ Flash flash flash flash. ‘I’m introducing myself because we’ve never met before. Yet here you are, in front of my home.’

I look across the mass of unknown faces.

‘Everyone here has probably had their heart broken,’ I say slowly. ‘We’ve all cried, and laughed, and been scared or unhappy. We’ve all said the wrong things, worn the wrong things, dated the wrong people.’

My eyes travel over the crowd.

They land briefly on the T-zone blogger from Richmond Park, standing towards the back with his phone in the air. He gives me an excited wave and I smile slightly.

‘But how many of you have your most painful, treasured or humiliating moments turned into entertainment for strangers?’

Silence.

The blogger looks at the ground.

I draw myself up as tall as I can. ‘Every day, for nearly a year, I have been chased, judged, criticised, questioned and exposed. You have commented on my body and graded my face. You have mocked my personality and my love life. You have called me names and taken photos of me without my permission. You have put me on a pedestal and knocked me off it again.’

A few older journalists shuffle uncomfortably and I see the blogger from the park stuff his phone into his pocket.

‘I am sixteen, and you’re treating me like a doll you can squabble over until you break me. At which point, you’ll throw me away and move on to another girl who’s shiny and new.’

I think of my mother lying in her darkened bedroom. No longer shiny. No longer new.

‘But—’ A journalist holds his Dictaphone up. ‘Faith, surely with the fame you’ve been born into, with the privilege, comes—’

‘Payment?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘For a life I didn’t choose or ask for? You are deciding who I am before I’ve even decided myself.’

I know I’m incredibly lucky to be born into an extraordinary life of opportunities and fortune. But the world is not my oyster.

And right now it’s me that’s being prised open; me having the pearl ripped out and sold without my permission, over and over again. Look what we found! Do we like it? How much can we get for it? Was it worth it? Should we keep searching for a new one? Everybody, look!

Maybe the oyster wanted to stay shut. Maybe it just wanted to keep its secret treasure to itself and for everybody to leave it the hell alone.

‘None of this is real.’ I gesture at myself. ‘Not my social-media posts. Not my quotes. Not my interviews. Not the clothes I wear or the people I date or the places I go. You have no idea who Faith Valentine is.’

The door behind me opens and a large hand appears.

Quick, quick, quick—

‘So I’m asking you, please, to—’

In one swift motion, I’m pulled into the house.