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affair replete with the very latest in gadgetry.

    The front door bursts open again and this time it's the man himself, Evan David. He's looking hunky, if a little sweaty, in shorts and a muscle top. And I notice that he has a good pair of legs; a healthy flush stains my cheeks even though I appear to be the only one who hasn't been exercising. Behind him is an equally handsome manwithout a bead of sweat on his shaved headwho looks like he's just come straight from running a boot camp.

    'Hi. Felicity,' Evan says.

    I try a smile. 'Fern.'

    'Fern.' He shrugs an apology. 'Good morning. This is Jacob, my personal trainer.'

    A huge man-mountain of a black guy follows them both in. He looks like one of the baddies in a James Bond film. He's wearing dark shades in a menacing way and is clutching a walkie-talkie. The mountain, too, hasn't broken sweat.

    'And this is Izak,' Evan tells me. 'My security manager.'

    Chef? Personal trainer? Security manager? Agent? Voice coach? Massage therapist? Whatever I am? How many people does this man need to help him through his day? Does he float through life on a raft of minions?

    No wonder I can't get out of my rut. Carl is the only person who supports me. Other than that I have a layer of people crushing me from above and keeping me down. No, that's unfair. I shouldn't feel like that about either my brother or my lovely nephew, Nathan. They haven't orchestrated their current situation on purpose. Thinking of them reminds me that I must call in to see them as soon as I canotherwise they'll think that I've been abducted, as rarely a day goes by without me popping in on them.

    'Have you had breakfast?'

    I realise that Mr David is speaking to me. 'Er...' Does aroma of Indian food count? 'No,' I confess. Frankly, I'm too hungry to pretend otherwise.

    'Get Chef to rustle you something up.' He glances back at the personal trainer. 'Join us, Jacob?'

    Jacob holds up a hand. 'I have to fly. I have an eight-thirty at Lloyd's.' And then he takes up his holdall and flies.

    'I'll shower and be with you in five, Chef.'

    Chef nods his acquiescence, then turns to me. 'Your order, madam?'

    I shrug. 'What's he having?'

    'Fresh fruit. Egg-white omelette. Mango and blueberry smoothie and this shite.' Dermuid holds up a glass of green gloop.

    'Yuch.'

    'It's supposed to be equivalent to eating five portions of raw vegetables.'

    'Nice.'

    'He doesn't eat meat or dairy products or carbs.'

    'Doesn't that leave fresh air?'

    Dermuid grins. 'Or anything out of a packet.'

    Trying not to think about how many times Pot Noodles feature in my diet, I reach for the kettle. 'Caffeine?'

    'Definitely off the menu.'

    'Why doesn't that surprise me?'

    'These are all the vitamins he takes every day.'

    There is an array of pills and potions set out on the counter like a window display in a pharmacy. 'He must rattle.'

    'Complete hypochondriac,' Dermuid says. 'Don't sneeze anywhere near him or you'll be out on your ear in five minutes.'

    'Why's he so neurotic?'

    'His voice.' Dermuid goes about the business of separating the tasty part of the eggs from the whites. 'He thinks that a lot of these things encourage mucus production.'

    'That is too much information.'

    'I guess if your voice was your fortune, you'd look after it, too.'

    I'm so not tempted to tell him about my smoke-filled nights in the King's Head belting out popular hit tunes. I look at the slimy egg whites. Perhaps I should start taking my health more seriously for when Simon Cowell comes knocking on my door.

    'Evan David is a lean, mean singing machine,' Dermuid tells me. 'He runs, meditates, practices martial arts and works out.'

    'You're making me hungry just thinking about it.' To confirm it my stomach groans. 'So what am I allowed?'

    'Bacon sarnie?'

    A bacon sandwich sounds quite appealing. 'Now you're talking.' I sit down on the stool next to him.

    'Better eat it quick before he comes in though.'

    'I'll bolt it,' I promise. 'I don't care