Oh, bugger. She remembers. I was hoping I would scrape through by the skin of my now itching teeth. That Billie Piper might not remember me. But, no. There it is: recall like a shotgun to the face. ‘You were the one round my flat that time who kept trying to put on f***ing Coldplay!’ Ouch. I turn, look behind one shoulder for comedic effect and then uselessly stutter something along the lines of, ‘Oh, nooooo, really? Me? That couldn’t possibly be me? What? Who? Nope. Coldplay? Yuck! And we’ve never met. I don’t think? Yes? No! Oh God, please, no…’
By this time Piper, 38, has walked closer and is towering over me. You know the way a great American eagle cocks its head to one side inquisitively just before it bites the legs off a small mouse? As I squirm, the actor gleefully continues, now tapping her publicist rapidly on the arm to ensure his complete and utter attentiveness. Her publicist — a lovely man called Max who I do definitely know — is looking at me with a mixture of mild disappointment, amusement and a total lack of surprise.
‘Yes!’ Piper is now giddy as the memory floods down from her brain to her fingers like liquid ecstasy. She’s giving me the teeth. All of them. All I can do is pray a sinkhole immediately hits the London studio we’re currently occupying. ‘You were so bloody annoying!’ Ah. Hold up. Actually, I mutter, to be fair, that does sound like me. Or rather old me. ‘You kept putting on songs from their X&Y album…’ Wow. She really does remember that night. Bang to rights. It must have been between 2005 and 2007, after that particular record came out and I had an idiotic habit of dominating — or attempting to dominate — stereos of whichever house party we’d ended up at. (Note: sorry everyone who’s ever known me.)
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