Kevin Pietersen has just been handed a copy of the June edition of the women’s magazine Glamour. “Oh no, here we go,” he groans.

“It’s the ‘lunch date’ feature,” I announce.

He flicks it open.

“Page 109,” I direct.

He finds the page.

“Now, I’d like you to look at me the way you looked at her,” I demand.

He smiles and shakes his head.

“It was just a pose for the photographer,” he protests. “I promise I didn’t do the interview like that.”

Hasn’t he heard that the camera doesn’t lie? In the photograph, he is staring across a dining table of a Chelsea hotel, bewitched by the fragrant charms of the journalist Celia Walden. It’s a look that says: “I wish everyone who came to interview me was as attractive as you.” It’s a look that says: “I’ll say anything you want.” And he does. The quotes make headlines. There’s his view on sex before batting . . .

“Sex doesn’t affect the way you play . . . Don’t tell me anyone’s going to stop a footballer shagging before a game.”

His fetish for cooking in the buff . . .

“I love married life, staying in and cooking for Jess . . . I do it naked.”