I closed my bedroom door and tiptoed downstairs, taking out my Nokia phone to call my friend Patsy. ‘You won’t believe who’s in my bed!’ ‘Who?’ she asked, intrigued. ‘JC!’

‘Oh my God! Why? What is happening? TELL ME EVERYTHING!’

I recounted to her how everyone left the club to head to a party, and by the time I got outside, they had gone. The only person lingering was JC, too inebriated to stand. I flagged down a taxi, and JC slipped inside, slurring, ‘PartttttttyYYYYY. We?’

I attempted to reach Nic, our mutual friend, to ask where they had gone, but her phone was off. I didn’t have anyone else’s number, and JC had misplaced his wallet. I offered to drop him home, repeatedly asking for his address. He just kept saying, ‘England!’ I couldn’t leave JC intoxicated and alone on the street, knowing we had the World Cup approaching. Leaving a key player wandering lost on Mayfair streets wasn’t an option.

Trying Nic’s boyfriend’s apartment crossed my mind, but no one was home. So, I decided the best option was to bring him back to my council estate.

Hoisting him out of the taxi, I ensured he drank plenty of water in the hallway before leading him to my bedroom, removing his coat and shoes, and settling him in bed.

‘I’m coming over,’ said Patsy.

Five minutes later, she arrived. We peered through my bedroom door at JC like he was some sort of exotic zoo animal.

Both of us were drunk and exhilarated. We headed downstairs to the kitchen, leaving JC to rest. With my mum not home and my sister Deborah’s bedroom door securely locked, I wasn’t sure if she was in.

Then, my phone rang. It was Theo – my boyfriend.

‘What should I do?,’ I asked Patsy.

‘Just answer it.’

‘But what am I going to say about JC being in my bed?’

‘Don’t tell him.’

I gave Patsy a sideways glance and answered. Theo’s car key was inside my house. He’d been waiting until I got back to collect it. He said he was coming over. I tried to find an excuse for why he should wait until morning, but all I had was, ‘Patsy is staying over’. He replied, ‘So?’

Before I could mentally untangle myself, he arrived. I kissed him hello, trying to act sane while freaking out on the inside at the very real possibility that JC could wake up at any moment, shuffle down the stairs, and, well, ruin my life. Patsy and I had agreed under no circumstances would I mention JC, but when Theo asked about my night I found myself wanting to.

One, the idea of not telling him and him finding out was too much to bear.

Two, I was drunk.

Three, I was incapable of lying.

So, quickly, I explained the madness of the evening.

‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘There’s no way he’s in your bed. I’m going to take a look, just to see if you’re telling the truth.’

‘I’m telling the truth!’ I replied, and handed Theo his car key. But he started walking towards the stairs.

‘Theo. It’s 3.30 in the morning. Let the guy sleep.’

‘I just want to see for myself.’

‘Fine. See that I’m not lying,’ I said. ‘Just don’t wake him up.’

‘I promise. I won’t,’ Theo said. He was a convincing liar.

I walked back into the kitchen and sat down opposite Patsy. Then there was a loud bang from upstairs. We froze. There was the sound of a door opening, then voices.

We rushed upstairs to investigate. That’s when I saw Theo on top of JC, throwing punches at JC’s head. JC’s arms flailed, trying to shove Theo off, but Theo kept pinning him down, landing punch after punch.

JC was curled into a ball, his hands shielding his head as Theo circled, his fists clenched, waiting for him to get up just to knock him down again. I screamed at Theo to stop, saying he was going to kill him if he wasn’t careful. This wasn’t some scrappy little bar fight; JC’s shirt had been ripped off; he was bruised and bleeding.

I had no idea how to stop this horror, but, in miracle-like fashion, JC fought back. He hit Theo on the side of the face. Theo swung back and he ducked out of the way. The pair began rumbling around my room and then, at a speed I didn’t know was possible, JC zoomed past Patsy and me, and before any of us had moved he was gone. That is why he was a professional football player, and Theo wasn’t. JC was fast. He was out of the house in only his trousers, and we had no idea how.

‘Why did you do that?’ I asked Theo.

‘Man needs to learn a lesson. You don’t sleep in my girl’s bed… simple as.’ And with that, he walked out, car key in hand.

The following day, after worrying about JC’s whereabouts, I found out that he was safe when he appeared on the front page of a tabloid newspaper with a black eye. The press got wind of the story after he’d run out of my house. It turned out he had escaped through the living room window, sprinted to the local cab office, explaining to a cabby who he was and they drove him home. (I assume he had sobered up enough to remember where he lived.)

The papers reported that I had a party at my house with the rest of the England football team. I’m not sure why a bunch of millionaires would have travelled all the way to my council estate in Southeast London, when they could have just as easily partied in a hotel suite. But I was no stranger to false narratives.

This is an edited extract from Keeley’s book Everyone’s Seen My Tits, which will be published on Tuesday by Little Brown, £22.