Nora noticed another man behind Marcelo – younger, with piercings, tattoos and a big smile – holding recording equipment.

‘We’d reserved a quiet space in the bar,’ Joanna said. ‘But there’s . . . people. I think we had better do this in Nora’s suite.’

‘Great,’ said Marcelo. ‘Great, great.’

As they walked over to the lift, Nora glanced back at the bar and saw the other band members. ‘You know, maybe you’d like to speak to the others too?’ she said to Marcelo. ‘They remember things I don’t. A lot of things.’

Marcelo smiled and shook his head and delicately said, ‘It works better this way, I feel . . .’

‘Oh, okay,’ she said.

Every eye was on them as they waited for the lift to arrive. Joanna leaned into Nora.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Of course. Yeah. Why?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just, you seem different tonight.’

‘Different how?’

‘Just . . . different.’

As they got in the lift Joanna asked another woman, one Nora recognised from the coach, to bring some drinks from the bar – two beers for the podcasters, a sparkling mineral water for Nora and a caipirinha for herself.

‘And bring them up to the suite, Maya.’

Maybe I am teetotal in this life, thought Nora, as she walked out of the lift and along the plush salmon-pink carpet to her suite.

And then, as she entered it, she tried to act like this was all perfectly normal. This gigantic room, leading to another gigantic room, leading to a gigantic bathroom. There was a vast bouquet of flowers for her, with a note signed by the hotel’s manager.

Wow, she resisted saying, as she gazed around at the lavish furnishings, the sweeping floor-to-ceiling curtains, the pristine white bed the size of an acre, the TV the size of a small cinema, the champagne on ice, the silver tray full of ‘Brazilian honey cakes’ as the card informed them.

‘Don’t suppose you’ll be having any of these,’ said Joanna, taking one of the little delicacies from the tray. ‘Now you’re on that new plan. Harley said I had to keep an eye on you.’

Nora watched Joanna bite into one of the cakes and wondered how good any plan could be if it didn’t involve eating something so clearly delicious as a Brazilian honey cake. She had no idea who Harley was, but she knew she didn’t like them.

‘Also . . . just so you know, the fires are still going on in LA and they’re evacuating half of Calabasas now, but hopefully it won’t get as high as your place . . .’

Nora didn’t know whether to be pleased at the idea of having a house in LA, or worried that it was about to go on fire.

The two Brazilian podcast guys took a few moments to set up their equipment. And Nora sunk herself into the vast sofa in the living area as Joanna – attending to a few rogue crumbs around her mouth with a heavily manicured finger – explained that their music podcast, O Som, was the most popular in Brazil.

‘Great demographics,’ Joanna enthused. ‘And the numbers are stratospheric. It’s totally worth doing.’

And she stayed there, watching like a hawk mother, as the podcast began.

The Podcast of Revelations

‘So, it has been a crazy year for you,’ Marcelo began, in his very good English.

‘Oh yeah. It has been quite a ride,’ said Nora, trying to sound like a rock star.

‘Now, if I may ask about the album . . . Pottersville. You wrote all the lyrics, yes?’

‘Mostly, yes,’ Nora guessed, staring at the small, familiar mole on her left hand.

‘She wrote all of them,’ interjected Joanna.

Marcelo nodded while the other guy, still smiling toothily, fiddled about with sound levels via a laptop.

‘I think “Feathers” is my favourite track,’ said Marcelo, as the drinks arrived.

‘I’m glad you like it.’

Nora tried to think of a way she could get out of this interview. A headache? A bad stomach?

‘But the one I’d like to talk about first is the first one you decided to release. “Stay Out Of My Life”. It seemed such a personal statement.’

Nora forced a smile. ‘The lyrics say it all really.’

‘Obviously there has been some speculation about whether it refers to the . . . how do you say it in English?’

‘Restraining order?’ offered Joanna, helpfully.

‘Yes! The restraining order.’

‘Um,’ said Nora, taken aback. ‘Well. I prefer to get it all out in the song. I find that stuff difficult to talk about.’

‘Yes, I understand. It is just that in your recent Rolling Stone interview you talked a little about your former boyfriend, Dan Lord, and mentioned how difficult it was to get the . . . the . . . the restraining order against him, after he stalked you . . . Didn’t he try to break into your house? Then tell reporters that he wrote the lyrics for “Beautiful Sky”?’

‘Jesus.’

She hovered at the intersection of tears and laughter, and managed, somehow, to give neither.

‘I wrote it when I was still with him. But he didn’t like it. He didn’t like me being in this band. He hated it. He hated my brother. He hated Ravi. He hated Ella, who was one of the original members. Anyway, Dan was very jealous.’