Two hours later I was in my street clothes in the back of a car, being driven to the airport. I'd packed my cat off to my mum's, dumped a bunch of clothes in a suitcase, grabbed Saulnier's 'Repertoire de la Cuisine' off the bookshelf and crammed it into my jacket pocket, and now I was wondering what this new life as a rock band's caterer was going to be like.

When you are as famous as this band, you don't travel on public transport. I was not surprised to find that they had their own jet. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it had a galley which, although cramped, was well equipped and sensibly stocked. I was shown to my own cabin, which was about the size of my closet at home and which consisted of a bed and a tiny ensuite shower cubicle.

And for the next couple of days, I learned the ropes. I personally spoke to each venue we went to and each hotel that we stayed in, and ensured that the proper food and drink was available for the band and their entourage. I whipped up snacks and light meals on demand, making the best of the electric hob and narrow oven. I was up each morning at six to prepare breakfast, and I went to bed each night after one, only when the whole band had finally dropped off. I thanked my stars that they were all so old, and liked early nights. Their manager told me that back in the 70s, they were able to go for days on end without sleep.

And the rest of the time, I trudged along in their wake, anonymous in my scuffed leather jacket and jeans, my Access All Areas card hanging round my neck, the least cool and least conspicuous member of the whole team. A constantly changing gaggle of girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, potential girlfriends and plain old groupies swarmed around the glamorously damaged band members. All of them could have and probably had modelled for Playboy, nearly all of them were blonde, half of them were younger than me (I am 28) and they had all had boob jobs. Only Don seemed not to have a female partner of some sort or other. They fluttered up to him all the time, and he would flash that grin and nuzzle them a bit, but he seemed to be able to make them go away without offending them. Sometimes he would catch my eye from across the room, while some catwalk model was trying it on, and he would flash this hugely amused twinkle at me, as if to say 'Ridiculous, innit?'

Okay, well, we are approaching the sex part, and I am now officially embarrassed.

It was on the fifth day of the tour, after the LA concert. We had been driving from the hotel to the airport for an overnight flight to Tokyo when I had suddenly received a cellphone call from Don. 'I fancy some cake, Dee, love,' he'd said lazily. 'A nice big Victoria sponge with jam and cream. In fact, make three in case the other lads get peckish in the morning. That's not a problem, is it?'

This was my first taste of a rock star's whims. I was going to be up for at least another three hours making the damn cake. 'Not a problem,' I'd said through clenched teeth. He'd rung off without thanking me.

We'd boarded the plane and taken off, and as soon as we'd climbed high enough to take off the seatbelts, I'd gone to the galley to change into my whites and get baking.

Something must have been wrong with the heating in the galley, because it was sweltering in there. Just taking out all the ingredients for three Victoria sponges had me dripping with sweat. I cursed, and nipped down the corridor to my cabin.

I took off my whites and stripped down to just my panties, then put the whites on over them. I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals. Normally I wear sturdy shoes while cooking because you don't want to drop hot fat on your bare feet, but baking a few cake was a low-risk job, even for someone as knackered as me. I went back to the galley.

It was boring and physical work, creaming the butter and sugar, blending it with the flour and eggs, and whipping the cream. But within forty minutes, I'd got a decent batter together and the oven was at the right temperature. I wiped my forehead, took off my steamed-up glasses and wiped them on a clean cloth. I glimpsed my reflection in the darkened window, looking out into the night sky over the Pacific - my face was shiny and I knew it was red.

Then the door slid open, Don eased himself into the room and slid the door shut behind him. He turned his charm on me.

'All right, Dee?' he said. 'Just came to see how the cake is coming along.'

'Another hour or so, sorry,' I said, not feeling sorry at all. 'Need notice for cakes.'

'It looks great,' he said, peering at the enormous bowl of cake batter and the deep Pyrex bowl of whipped cream, ready to go into the fridge to chill. 'It really is very good of you to go to all this trouble for me.'

'It's what I'm paid for,' I said curtly. I took six cake tins out of a drawer and began to smear butter around the insides.

'Mind if I.?' he said, grinning at me and pointing at the metal bowl of cake batter.

'Wash your hands,' I said, indicating the sink and the handwash bottle. He pouted, washed his hands, then dried them, dipped a finger in the mix and tasted.

'Mmmm,' he said, 'brings back memories. Lovely.'

'Be better when it's cooked,' I said.

'So, how you settling in?' he said conversationally, leaning against the wall. I was really irritated with him and just wanted him to fuck off so I could cook in peace.

'Fine,' I said.

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