She had never just turned up unannounced. You couldn't do that in her world, with an army of camera-wielding stalkers tracking her every move.
But today was different.
Today she'd made a decision. It was to be the first of many, but even she knew just how fundamental this one would be to the machinations of her carefully constructed spotlight of a career.
She was famous, arguably the most famous woman in the country at the moment, certainly the most talked-about.
But fame was like glass to her. Shaped by fire, transparent and brittle. It was strong enough to hold her up to the world and contain her rising star. But no matter what skill went into its craft, a careless swipe was enough to shatter everything.
It was a strange way of living, so open and accessible to millions of people, yet with a tiny core of emotions and secrets that could only be guessed at.
She'd learnt well, a willing and able pupil to the suits and cheque writers, who promised the earth if she could only behave herself.
It had felt like a joke at the time. Sitting on your hands, biting your tongue, carefully attuning your wardrobe, your friends, your life. Layer after layer of gloss had been applied to her tiny frame until all that could be seen was what they wanted to see.
And in return she had the lifestyle, the money, the opportunity for solo success. It felt like everything to a girl who had worked a smoke filled bar in Heaton for cash in hand and a bag of chips on a Friday night.
Never again would she have to worry about signing on, or queuing to put money on her key meter, or nipping down to the One Stop in the rain at 11pm to stock up on Mayfair's - unable to scrape together enough change for Marlboros.
She had four bank accounts - one off-shore, a car that cost more than all of her siblings' flats put together, two Chihuahuas that had a grooming routine more lengthy than her own at 18 years old.
She was part of the most successful British girl group ever. Even alone, her name was responsible for 25 pay cheques. She had a general manager, a PR manager, a PA, a personal stylist, a personal hairdresser, a manicurist, a masseuse and a podiatrist who took care of her ingrown toenails on a monthly basis.
There were sponsors, endorsements, television contracts and label distribution rights, all earning her money in her sleep.
Which wasn't to say she didn't work for it, because out of all the girls she undisputedly put in the most hours and expended the most energy.
Out of all of them, she wanted it the most.
But there had been something else she had come to want just as much. Something that no amount of scene-stealing headlines, flashbulb premiers, sold-out tours or celebrity trappings could dispel.
It had crept up on her - a stealthy delicate shadow, building beneath her ribcage, growing, shape-shifting, eluding her entirely whenever she tried to grasp at it and seek control.
It was 2010. She'd been living out loud for over seven years.
She'd spent a dark and miserable evening sipping from her wine glass as Nina sang about a new dawn and a new day and finally wrestled her insecurities into submission.
This feeling, she'd admitted, it was never going to go away.
Before her lawyer, before her husband, before her lover, she had called Hilary.
She didn't have much time though. They were hammering out an action plan, a feat akin to readying for war. There were people and props to put into place, meetings to arrange and then cancel and re-arrange. Press releases to write. Family to debrief.
