The sound of beeping woke me up. Strange. Usually, I set my phone to play Pharrell's "Happy" at seven every morning in a vain attempt to convince myself that I actually was.

It failed every time.

I reached out to shut off the noise, but something tugged at the back of my hand. Ouch! That stung.

"Easy, easy."

Why was Maddie in my bedroom? My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open. Why was everything white? My best friend swam into view, concern etched over her face.

"What's wrong?" It came out as, "Wash ron?"

"You had a teeny, tiny accident. You're in hospital."

Well, that would explain the bland colour scheme. "Wa kinda assident?"

"You slipped over and knocked yourself out for a little while."

Really? How on earth had I managed that? I'd been intending to do some tidying, but...

"How'd it happen?"

"Uh, we were in a club, and you slipped in a pool of, uh..." Her voice dropped a few decibels. "...baby oil."

My voice, on the other hand, got louder as it recovered. "Baby oil? I don't even have any baby oil."

"Well, it was kind of provided at the club."

"What kind of club provides baby oil?"

My memory came back in fits and starts. The lights, the music, the chanting, the steroid-riddled guy standing naked in front of me.

"You took me to a strip club!" I screeched.

"Shh, keep your voice down. There are other patients around."

Much as it pained me, she was right about that. "Fine. I certainly don't want anyone else finding out."

Her cheeks coloured as she shuffled backwards. "It might be a bit late for that."

"What are you talking about?"

"Er... Perhaps you should get some rest."

"Maddie, what are you talking about?"

"Okay, okay. Do you remember Mandy Clark? We went to school with her."

"That perky blonde whose life's ambition was to bag herself a Premier League footballer?"

She'd even learned what the offside rule was. We'd had a bust-up in year six when she'd said my accent was so posh it was stupid and I'd grabbed her Barbie doll and put its arm in the electric pencil sharpener, and she'd never forgiven me.

"Well, she's getting married. To a footie player, surprise, surprise. But she's had to slum it. He's only in League Two."

"Terrific. And?"

"Well, she might have been at the cabaret last night. And she might have brought her camera. And one or two of those pictures may have found their way onto Facebook."

Oh, bloody hell. "Get her to take them down. Please!"

"I tried, but it was too late. They'd already got over seven hundred likes and made it onto Twitter."

I closed my eyes. This couldn't be happening.

"I didn't know Mandy even had seven hundred friends."

"She doesn't. She tagged you, so some of them are yours. Then the photos went a little bit viral. People have been commenting from as far away as Ecuador. The one where you were stroking the dude's wotsit was particularly popular."

Bang went my plan of running away to South America. All that training, all that effort my mother had put in to turn me into a lady, and I'd just ruined it. I couldn't even behave properly at a strip club.

Still, on the bright side, the embarrassment I'd felt about Edward's affair paled into insignificance beside this latest debacle.

I was never going to another club. Never.

On second thoughts, I wouldn't even be able to set foot outside my front door again. I'd lock myself in my flat forever. Waitrose delivered, so I'd be fine. In sixty years, someone would find my corpse surrounded by empty chocolate boxes, mummified after it had lain undiscovered for six months.

My obituary would be short.

Olivia Porter, daughter of the late Frank and Victoria. Known for her lewd behaviour and her complete inability to attract a man. Survived by her seventeen cats.

I dropped my voice to a whisper. "Maddie, I'm going to kill you. You know that, right?"

"Gosh, would you look at the time? My shift's just about to start. Gotta run."

Coward.

An hour later, a doctor examined me, poking and prodding and shining a torch in my eyes.

"You have a slight concussion, and we need to keep you in overnight for observation. If nothing worsens, you can go home tomorrow."

Was I supposed to be grateful for that? I guess so, but I didn't fancy being alone in my flat, either. What was there for me? An underwhelming amount of work, a half-empty wardrobe, and a gaping hole in my life. So much to look forward to.

"Leaving so soon? Are you sure that's safe?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "We need the bed for patients who don't inflict injuries on themselves."

His pursed lips told me the doctors hadn't found Maddie's tale of a strip night gone wrong very funny.

The nurses did, though. By the time I was discharged, at least ten of them had asked about it, and they gave me a leaving gift of furry handcuffs and a bottle of baby oil.

I tried to smile, but my sense of humour had all but deserted me. Every day, I became more like my mother. The only positive thing about the constant jibes was that when Maddie waved a white tissue taped to a pencil around the edge of the door in surrender, I was pretty much desensitised to the whole mess.

"Are you still planning to kill me?" she asked.

"No." A sigh escaped. "I can see you were only trying to help, and besides, I'm not sure how I'd go about hiding the body."

Plus, I couldn't drive, and she was my lift home.

When we got back to my flat, she insisted on coming in and making me toast and a cup of tea before she returned to Dave.

"That way I'll know you've eaten something other than junk food. I bought you fresh milk and a few groceries."

At least somebody cared. "Thank you."

"It'll all blow over, you'll see. A celebrity'll fall out of a club or something, and nobody'll be interested in your video anymore."

"I hope you're right. And I really do appreciate the food."

"We'll do a takeaway next week. Deal?"

"Deal."

After Maddie left, I shuffled to bed. My head still hurt, and I craved sleep as though I hadn't spent part of this week unconscious.

Two days passed before I felt well enough to turn on the computer, and even then, a dull ache pulsed behind my eyeballs. The pain only got worse when I read my emails.

Olivia,

Several of my clients have shown me the video of your shenanigans on Facebook, and I can't express how disappointed I am at your lack of professionalism. First the "bushes" faux pas and now this. Regrettably, I'll be taking my business elsewhere.

Camilla

And it got worse as I scrolled down.

Olivia,

I need you to discount all tracksuit prices by ten percent immediately.

Derek

Then when I didn't reply straight away...

Olivia,

I see you haven't made the changes. Is there a problem?

Derek

Twelve hours later...

Olivia,

Are you ignoring me?

Derek

And the final message, timed at eight o'clock this morning.

Olivia,

As you're non-responsive, I've found another web designer. He's cheaper too. Send your final invoice to my secretary when you eventually get around to reading your emails.

Derek

That...that...asshole! Without their recurring fees, my situation had become even more dire. I opened up my spreadsheet and recalculated everything. If I ate nothing but oatmeal and didn't use the heating, ever, plus picked up one more decent client, I could just about afford to live. As long as nothing else went wrong, that was.

But what else could go wrong? My life disappeared down the toilet when Edward did the dirty on me. Taurus had only pressed the flush.

For so many years, I'd worn a mask, working to give the impression that I was of the same social standing as Edward and my friends, but with one drunken mistake, that illusion had been shattered. I'd been revealed for who I truly was. Common little Olivia Porter.

I'd been outed as an impostor.

How could things possibly get any worse?