I am trying to get into Vanessa’s car but first I have to find the seat

FIVE pm, London, and I’m lying on the sofa in Vanessa’s sitting room, counting tribal Afghan kilims.

She has a comprehensive collection - as you might expect from someone who worked with antique textiles for 15 years - but overwhelming, I feel, lying here with my head on a mule-saddle, my back on a Beluchi and my feet on god knows what from Balikesir.

“So what time is Chrissy’s girlfriend expecting us for dinner?” Vanessa says.