It was the morning after the night before and I was picking glass out of my leg by a pool, blotting the blood trickling down my calf with a navy spotted handkerchief. I was trying to work out how the shards of glass came to be there… and then it came back to me.

But first, let’s rewind. I was taking my seat on the British Airways 10 a.m. flight to Nice. ‘Not another one!’ a woman right behind me in steerage complained. ‘Is this some special flight or something?’

I stowed my Globe-Trotter in the overhead locker and made eye contact with her. ‘Piers Morgan is up front,’ she explained. ‘And that’s Matt Goss.’ She pointed to a tidy man minding his own business a few rows ahead. I couldn’t pick Goss (one half of the 1980s boy band Bros) out in a line-up, but this man did look familiar, as celebs do.

I texted Piers in 1A: ‘I’m behind you!’ He texted back: ‘Do you want me to send you back some champagne?’ I told him I had a Pret breakfast pot, thank you, adding, to annoy: ‘By the way, you’re not even the most famous person on this flight.’

As I stood in the Avis queue, ‘Matt Goss’ approached. ‘Hello Rachel,’ he said, to my slight shock, and came in for a hug. Which was fine, except I’ve never met Matt........

© The Spectator