God, I can’t believe I’m considering paying for a taxi.

‘Look!’ Rachel hisses suddenly, poking me in the ribs.

‘Oww! What?’

‘Look! It’s Tasha Chai-Latte!’

I follow her pointing finger. A young woman dressed in a subtle lilac cocktail dress has just entered the crowd, a staggeringly attractive boyfriend in tow. An intimidating man in a tux follows the two of them – their bodyguard, presumably.

Rachel’s right, it’s definitely her. I recognise the chiselled cheekbones from YouTube. Despite myself, I feel my stomach flutter a little – I’m such a sucker for a famous person.

‘I can’t believe she came!’

‘Martin will be ecstatic. Do you think she’ll let me take a picture with her?’ Rachel asks. Above us, the gigantic Katherins on their screens smile out at the crowd, and her hands hold up a finished square.

‘It’s the big man in the tux I’d worry about, if I were you.’

‘She’s filming! Look!’

Tasha Chai-Latte’s impossibly handsome boyfriend has pulled a compact, expensive-looking video camera out of his satchel, and is fiddling with the buttons. Tasha checks her hair and make-up, dabbing a finger along her lips.

‘Oh my God. She’s going to put the event on her YouTube channel. Do you think Katherin will mention you in her thank-you speech? We’ll be famous!’

‘Calm down,’ I tell her, exchanging a look with Mo, who is currently working his way through the large pile of canapés he has been hoarding while everyone else is too distracted by crochet to capitalise on the food.

Tasha’s boyfriend lifts the camera, training it on Tasha’s face. Immediately she is wreathed in smiles, all thought of hair and make-up forgotten.

‘Get closer, get closer,’ Rachel mutters, shooing Mo in the direction of Tasha. We shuffle along, trying to look nonchalant, until we’re just about close enough to hear them.

‘. . . amazing lady!’ Tasha is saying. ‘And isn’t this place beautiful? Oh my God, you guys, I feel so lucky to be here, and to be able to share it with all of you – live! You know how I feel about supporting real artists, and that’s exactly what Katherin is.’

The crowd bursts into applause – Katherin has finished her demonstration. Tasha gives an impatient gesture, telling her boyfriend to do another take. I guess they’re warming up for the live stream.

‘And now a few thank-yous!’ Katherin says from the stage.

‘This is it,’ Rachel whispers excitedly. ‘She’ll definitely mention you.’

My stomach twists. I’m not sure I want her to mention me – there are a lot of people in this room, and an extra few million who will soon be watching via Tasha Chai-Latte’s YouTube channel. I adjust my dress, trying to inch it a little higher.

I needn’t have worried, though. Katherin starts by thanking her entire network of friends and family, which turns out to be extensive to the point of absurdity (I can’t help wondering if she’s taking the piss a bit – it would be just like her). The crowd’s attention shifts; people begin to move around in search of prosecco and tiny food.

‘And finally,’ Katherin says grandly, ‘there are two people who I just had to save until last.’

Well, that can’t be me. It’ll be her mum and dad or something. Rachel shoots me a disappointed look, and then returns her attention to Tasha and her boyfriend, who are filming everything with quiet concentration on their faces.

‘Two people without whom this book would never have happened,’ Katherin goes on. ‘These two have worked so hard to make Crochet Your Way possible. And, even better than that, they believed in me from the very start – long before I was lucky enough to gather crowds this large for my events.’

Rachel and I turn to stare at one another.

‘It won’t be me,’ Rachel whispers, suddenly looking very nervous. ‘She doesn’t even remember my name most of the time.’

‘Tiffy and Rachel have been editor and designer on my books for the last three years, and they are the reason for my success,’ Katherin says grandly. The crowd applauds. ‘I cannot thank them enough for making my book the best it can possibly be – and the most beautiful it can possibly be. Rachel! Tiffy! Will you get up here please? I have something for you both.’

We gawp at one another. I think Rachel might be hyperventilating. I have never regretted an outfit choice more than I do now. I have to get up onstage in front of one thousand people, wearing something that only just covers my nipples.

But as we stumble our way to the stage – which really does take quite some time, we weren’t very near the front – I can’t help noticing Katherin smiling down from her giant screens. In fact, she almost looks a little teary. God. I feel like a bit of a fraud. I mean, I have worked pretty much full-time on Katherin’s book for the last few months, but I also complained about it a lot, and didn’t actually pay her very much to begin with.

I’m onstage before I’ve really registered what’s happening. Katherin kisses me on the cheek and hands me an enormous bouquet of lilies.

‘Thought I’d forgotten you two, didn’t you?’ she whispers in my ear, with a cheeky smile. ‘The fame’s not gone quite that far to my head yet.’

The crowd is clapping, and the sound echoes down from the roof until I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I smile, hoping that sheer willpower will be sufficient adhesive for the top of my dress. The lights are so bright when you’re up here – they’re like starbursts on the insides of my eyes every time I blink, and everything is either very white and shiny or black and shadowy, like someone’s messed with the contrast.

I think that’s why I don’t really notice the commotion until it reaches the front of the crowd, trembling its way through the throng, sending heads turning and people crying out as they stumble as though they’ve been pushed. Eventually a figure shoves its way through and vaults on to the stage.

I can’t really see properly, eyes burned with all the lights, lily heads bobbing in front of me as I try to get a good hand-hold on the bouquet of flowers and wonder how I’m going to get down off the stage in these shoes without being able to use the handrail.

I recognise the voice, though. And once I’ve registered that, everything else drops away.

‘Can I have the mic?’ says Justin, because of course, implausibly, impossibly, the figure pushing his way through the crowd was his. ‘I have something I want to say.’

Katherin’s passed him the mic before she’s even thought about it. She glances at me at the last moment, frowning, but it’s already in Justin’s hand. That’s Justin: he asks, he gets.