This isn't a fantasy. I am sitting in my flat, waiting for a supermodel. He is really arriving. Cameron Alborzian was once one of the most successful male models in the world.

He wasn't a Jackie magazine photo casebook story kind of model - he was handpicked by Madonna to play her lover in the video for Express Yourself, and he has smiled out from the cover of Vogue.

He escaped from fashion seven years ago and is now a yoga guru called Yogi Cameron. And, for up to £20,000 a week, he will fly from his home in New York and come to live in your house, to educate you in the benefits of a yogic life.

He's the Ocado of yoga gurus. You can order him on the internet and have him delivered. He will detox you and leave you feeling calm and shiny and happy. He can turn your life around.

I don't get much sleep the night before he arrives - because I am on the internet, looking at pictures of him and shaking. My last boyfriend looked like the Phantom Of The Opera without his mask. Now I have a former supermodel living in my house for 24 hours. What am I going to do?

I look down and I realise my lower legs have swollen up in terror. They look like saveloys. I am Saveloy Woman.

At 10.30am precisely a black taxi pulls up. I look out of the window and see a god getting out. He is 6ft and yoga slim, with black hair and big brown eyes. He looks like James Bond, but less murderous. He is carrying two black suitcases. He looks around my boring suburban street with an adorable quizzical expression.

'Cameron,' I scream out of the first-floor window, 'I'm up here.' He gives me a jet-lagged smile and I run down the stairs to let him in.

'Hello,' he says. And I dry up. I don't know what to do. So I say: 'Welcome to Hampstead.'

Welcome to Hampstead? That has got to be up there with the all-time worst line to an attractive man, which was in Dirty Dancing: 'I carried a watermelon.' My next line is: 'Do you want a banana?'

I suspect that Yogi Cameron is used to palaces. He has zillions of celebrity clients (although he won't tell me their names). What he probably isn't used to is a hallway full of bicycles. I watch him struggle past the bicycles and on up to my flat - essentially a room with a bed and cooker.

If Yogi Cameron is slightly concerned that we are going to be spending the night together in a room in which you can see the cooker from the bed, he is much too polite to show it. He unpacks his stuff. He has brought pots of spices, a massage table and a book called Yogic Herbs.

I peer at him sideways and decide to treat his absurd beauty like a disability. I decide not to mention it. To be tactful. Yogi Cameron smiles at me and says he is here to make me relax, which is a bit ridiculous really because all I do when I look into the eyes of the most beautiful man I have ever met is - well, my legs swell up.

Strike a pose: Yogi Cameron

He takes my pulse and then he asks me to stick out my tongue. I don't want to, but I feel I have no choice. It flaps in front of Yogi Cameron's face, looking toxic. 'Relax,' he whispers, but all I can do is wonder if I have flushed the toilet. He pronounces me stressed - too much caffeine, too much sugar, too many fags, too much worrying.

'Don't worry,' he says. 'I see you.' Cameron explains that the closer you live to nature, the better. So he is for local, seasonal food in small amounts, going to bed early and walking in the woods. He's against alcohol, sugar and even make-up.

I wail: 'But what about my blotchy skin? It needs make-up!'

'Take care of yourself and you won't have blotchy skin,' he replies. He says he doesn't want me to have any fags or coffee that day. He doesn't insist.

Yogis don't insist; it isn't their style. But he asks me in such a sweet, beautiful, brown-eyed way that I feel I can't say no. Not only do I have the most beautiful man in the world in my flat, I am not even allowed to smoke. This is terrible.

Yoga time. I lie on the floor and he manipulates my body into certain positions, muttering: 'Breathe, breathe. Let all thoughts melt away into your breathing.'

That is his mantra: 'Breeeaaathe.' I am so frightened of flirting with him that I make nothing of the touch of his hands on my body. I pretend I am with my tax lawyer. But my body is relaxing. I am beginning to feel . . . sleepy.

Next, he puts up his massage table. I clamber on, lie on an electric blanket and Yogi Cameron sticks a duvet on me. (This. Is. Heaven). He has connected up some weird-looking brass apparatus and filled it with sesame oil and he asks me to put my head under it. And he tells me to close my eyes and . . . oh my nameless God.

He is pouring sesame oil on my forehead and it feels incredible. And he is massaging a small, very intimate part of my forehead, just above my left eyebrow, which he says is my third eye. My eyelids are flickering like butterflies. And I fall asleep. This is typical of me. I have the most beautiful man in the world in my flat and I sleep through it.

When I wake up, Yogi Cameron is sitting on my sofa, reading Yogic Herbs. 'I have been asleep,' I say, stupidly. 'Yes, you have,' he says, turning away from Yogic Herbs and smiling at me, beautifully. 'You have been asleep for nearly two hours.'

The treatment, he explains, is designed to cure all kinds of stress and mental turmoil. Then we go out for lunch. I give Yogi Cameron a list of my local restaurants and he chooses the one least likely to contain poison in its food.

He is wearing a black polo neck and a scarf. And I preen all the way down the street: 'Look at me! Look who I'm with!'

Women are staring at him. They are stopping and nudging their friends and then their friends are staring at him, too. I feel as if I have won a prize.

At the restaurant he orders green tea, plain rice and vegetables, while I secretly check my text messages under the table. They are all from my friends and they all say: 'Is he gay?'

'No,' I text back. 'He says he has a girlfriend and a child'. Normally I would order everything on the menu that contains fat and carbohydrates. But with Yogi Cameron beside me I feel fine just ordering green tea, plain rice and vegetables.

The food comes and - what is this? I am not even hungry. Is the secret that he comes round and stops you imbibing anything toxic and the payoff is you get to spend time with him?

He tells me that he left modelling because he was bored, there was no spiritual crisis, and he loves being a yoga guru because his life is simple and wholesome. 'There is no drama in my life,' he says, simply.

'Don't you miss it?' I say. He shakes his head. The thing that strikes me most about him is how nice he is. I was expecting a jerk - or a mental case. Instead, I seem to have a cross between Marlon Brando and Jesus.

Then we go for a walk on the heath, and I talk about myself and my stomach. And he talks about how the yogic life can give you peace, if you work at it.

My friends text again, to say they absolutely need to come over to stare at Yogi Cameron, but he won't let them.

'This is time for you,' he says. So I text them back, saying: 'He wants to be alone with me!'

When we return it is dusk. I give him a long look and think, I cannot let you sleep in here, even in the pulldown bed that is covered in dust because my cleaner hates me. I am undeserving. So I book him a room in the local guesthouse.

Don't be angry, reader. It was self-preservation. I get into bed feeling warm and safe and relaxed. I sleep the sleep of the long dead.

Yogis go to sleep early and get up early. They are like babies. They follow the sun. So at 7.30am on the dot the next day the doorbell rings. He has come back! He says he has been up since 5am, doing the 90 minutes of yoga he does every day. I admit I had two cigarettes and a piece of chocolate the night before.(Actually, it was four cigarettes and two pieces of chocolate).

'That's OK,' he says. 'There is no guilt here.' He explains that any negative or self-hating thoughts are banned. Oh! I want Yogi Cameron to be my parents.

And we lie on the mat, doing our yoga moves. He makes me a cup of hot, gingery tea, which I sip slowly. He says I look a lot better than I did yesterday. And I do. The shadows under my eyes have retreated and I look less bloated. Less Teletubby, more woman. Then we do the sesame oil head treatment. This time, he takes off his T-shirt to do it and adds a David Beckhamesque man skirt. My jaw drops, does a waltz round the whole of North London then comes back and re-attaches itself to my head. He is like a tiger. He ripples.

As he pours the oil, he tells me he has spent a lot of time in India, where he learned to do this. Again, those magic, oily fingers.

I tell myself I am not going to fall asleep. Predictably, I fall asleep. When I wake up he's on the sofa again, reading Yogic Herbs.

Then it is lunch, where I am overwhelmed by a powerful urge to eat vegetables. 'I love broccoli,' I tell Yogi Cameron. (I have clearly been indoctrinated). 'Broccoli loves you, too,' he smiles.

We are fast friends. He picks a piece of dry skin off my nose and strokes my cheek. I finally ask him what I have wanted to ask him since we met, which is: What is it like to look like you do?

'It is a mundane thing,' he says, shrugging his beautiful shoulders. 'Outer beauty doesn't play any role in inner beauty.'

We have only one fight, when he tells me that yogis never vote because that would be asking someone else to take responsibility for them. I disagree because I believe that democracy is a privilege, but I decide I love him anyway.

He is like a best friend who never talks about himself. In just 24 hours he has instilled me with a sense of peace and a love for the processes of my body and the natural world.

I don't know if the healthy new feelings will walk out the door with him, but today I feel great. And I don't want him to go. I consider clinging to his beautiful leg so he cannot leave.

I watch him pack up his spices and wipe sesame oil off my cheap floor and wonder - is he worth the money? I decide he is a luxury, but he is worth it. He has supernatural powers in his magic fingers and soothing voice and god-given face.

If I were paying anyone up to £20,000 a week to watch me eat broccoli, it would be Yogi Cameron.