1. Darcy

You know that part in Pretty Woman when Edward is taking in the sight of Vivian lying in his bed on that first morning, and her hideous blonde wig is nowhere to be seen, and her hair is the kind of gorgeous, glossy auburn that Julia Roberts pulls off so well, and it's so much better than the wig? Like, not even comparable?

Well, not to toot my own horn too much, but that's basically the level of transformation my sister Gen's genius hair stylist, Giorgio, has pulled off for me today in his swanky Chelsea salon.

It's weird. I was so morbidly obsessed with the prospect of skin damage when I was living in Australia that I wore sun cream obsessively. I literally slathered myself in the stuff. So my skin is actually pale and creamy and pretty fucking luscious, I would say.

Not so my hair.

Apparently, all those times I wore sun screen and a baseball cap did bugger all for my hair, which I totally neglected. The entire time, my poor hair was being nuked by good old Aussie sunlight and dried out by long days of surfing, which meant that the ponytail I left hanging out the back of my cap ended up nothing short of bleached and stringy.

Maybe it wasn't as helmet-y as Julia Roberts' blonde wig, but it was definitely as skanky. Let it be said, in a moment of humility, that until this afternoon, I had, as my sister put it, the hair of a skanky ho.

Nice.

This is where having an older sister who's not only obsessive about grooming and extremely generous but on the verge of marrying an actual billionaire comes in very handy indeed. Gen took one look at me after I turned up at her old flat last week and shuddered before speed-dialling her darling Giorgio and begging him to take me on.

I have to admit, he's as fun as he is talented. His initial judgy bitch face when he saw me has given way to some excellent gossip-sharing over the past two hours. Boy, does he have some famous clients. I could chat to him all day long. And now, as I gaze at myself in the mirror, I am fucking gobsmacked, which is no mean feat.

Given the way I began this story, it may not surprise you to hear that I've traded the skanky bleached blonde in for…

Red!

I know. Shocker, right?

Well, not red. I basically told him to give me Pretty Woman hair. And, given what he had to work with, I'd say the guy's a miracle worker. The hair in the mirror is three inches shorter than it was when I turned up—apparently the bottom three inches were way beyond salvageable—and sleek AF.

Giorgio explained to me that the semi-permanent vegetable colour and the gloss he put on afterwards would nourish my hair and add back shine, but this is a whole other level. I smile at myself in the mirror and shake my head, watching as my newly glorious mane swishes and bounces and settles around me like a soft chestnut cloud.

Sure, it's a tad Nineties Supermodel, but that's what you're gonna get when you ask for Pretty Woman hair. It doesn't matter, because I won't be able to pull off this level of blow-dry by myself, even with Gen's Dyson hairdryer.

Do you know what else it is?

Expensive.

That's right. I look expensive, which, aside from looking hot, was my number one objective when I turned up here today. Farewell, cheapo Gold Coast Darcy. Hello, expensive Mayfair Darcy.

This is an important thing to get right, because when I go up to dance on that stage at Alchemy Cannes, the seasonal French pop-up of the super-exclusive sex club my sister co-founded, I need to look classy.

It's not enough that my moves will be balletic. Mesmerising. Erotic beyond belief. My entire demeanour needs to scream you can't afford me, because nothing makes rich, entitled douches crazier than not being able to get what they want.

My sister, a woman not known for mincing her words, put it this way when she told me to come the fuck home and stop fannying around on the other side of the world.

‘You don't touch them,' she said. ‘And you definitely don't let them touch you. You're basically their fluffer. You're the one thing in that club they can't have, and it's going to piss them off. You'll be the shiniest jewel in there, just out of reach, and you'll fucking dazzle them. They're going to keep coming back, just to try to close the deal with you. And every time they fail, you'll send them a little crazier, and every time you do that, they'll stay longer and fuck harder and get more and more hooked.'

Let me tell you.

Red rag to a fucking bull.

I was booking my flight home even before she threw in the sweetest of all sweeteners: that I could live in her gorgeous, dreamy, magazine-worthy flat. For free. I suppose when your adoring fiancé has an enormous mansion in Holland Park and one in the South of France and the chalet version in Gstaad, you can afford to pay it forward to your penniless, pathetic little sister.

In case I haven't made it clear, Gen is probably my favourite person on the planet, and definitely my favourite person in our family. But I adore this mega-wealthy version of her even more.

And I can barely get my head around how much more amazing my London lifestyle will be thanks to her crazy generosity.

A job dancing at the most exclusive sex club in London—and its South of France outpost.

Check.

A beautiful, luxurious flat in South Kensington.

Check.

Now I just need the hot sex. If I know my sister, she'll cockblock as much as she needs to if it means keeping me away from her patrons. Keeping them ravenous and crazed with frustration.

I'm the juicy steak the club intends to dangle in front of the horniest, wealthiest men and women in Europe.

But none of them will be allowed to sink their teeth in.