The day after.

My partner puts my overnight things into a case and me into the car. She drives. I only have to sit. I can manage that, can’t I?

We arrive at a tiny but perfect capsule hotel room, carefully selected to be minutes walk from BAFTA.

It is time to get ready. To become the other Rachel. The one that has done the thing.

We trip over ourselves getting ready in the microspace.

But somehow I shower and gel my hair and quiff it.

I open my bag, pulling out sparkly material.