While Sam Strong is an unequivocal creep, I have a theory that he doesn’t just date much younger women because he craves our firm young flesh. I strongly suspect it’s because we’re mostly low maintenance, and we hardly ever bother him with phone calls. Actually ringing him indicates a Defcon 1 emergency. So he picks up in two seconds. ‘Imogen! What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ Half a beat. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. Having a bit of a weird time at work, and I was hoping to take advantage of your wisdom and experience…’

Sam Strong is vain, and I can sometimes use that to my advantage. He chuckles. ‘I see. I’m in the office but I can probably be home in an hour or so. See you at my place?’

‘We could just go somewhere for lunch? Or coffee?’

‘Ah, it’s been a while. I’m in the mood for a nooner.’

Dammit. This means a thirty quid trip to Boots the Chemist, and toothpaste and deodorant and everything else it takes to remove every trace of my night in the office.

When he opens his apartment door, he’s in a white towelling dressing gown.

‘Did you nick that from a hotel?’

‘Hello to you too.’ He lunges at my mouth. ‘Mmmm, minty fresh. Actually, Miss Smarty Pants, I think you’ll find that I designed them for a hotel! There’s one for you too, if you want. A branding thing I did for The Gentleman.’

‘How do you even design a dressing gown?’

‘Robe.’

‘Robe, then? It’s only marginally harder than designing a tea towel. You can hardly put a bonus sleeve in.’

Sam looks exasperated. ‘Do you want one, or not?’

It does look cosy. Usually, I attempt to undress with intent, but I’m so tired that I peel down my underwear with my jeans, pull off my jumper, and leave my boots at the bottom of a puddle of clothes on the floor. The robe is heavy, and blissfully thick. I could wrap it all the way around me, twice over. It’s made for a man. Of course it is, I think resentfully, even though it’s a delicious novelty to feel fragile, to feel enveloped by the too muchness of something.

‘What’s this?’ I’ve spotted a brown splodge on the breast pocket. ‘I hope that’s chocolate…oh, it’s embroidered. It’s…is that supposed to be a pair of poo emojis?’ One poo is balanced on top of the other.

‘What? My logo? We had it designed, it’s a double S, in dark bronze! We commissioned Design Lab, it cost twenty grand.’

‘It’s a double poo, Sam.’

Sam Strong frowns, and stares at me for a second. ‘Shit. Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Give me a minute, I need to make some calls.’