I tell him everything. I clean a pile of delicate blue and white china plates, while I explain about skipping naked speed dating, accidentally sending the email, and letting myself get caught in my own lie. I clean a spring-bottomed tin while telling him about the first big piece, going on TV, being called a whore on social media, feeling as though my life was spinning out from under me. I clean a hand-held blender, and explain about the orgy, the way Harri’s criticism was even more stinging and humiliating than almost having horrible sex with horrible strangers, the lying, the anxiety. I clean a set of cake forks, and tell him about The Gentleman, about feeling so crushed and trapped, about being exhausted from constantly having my hopes dashed, that if—when—I get fired from The Know, there will be nowhere for me to go. I clean a baking sheet, accidentally scratching off the protective coating with a wire brush, when I tell him about Devon, my family, the fight with Jen, my horrible flat, the panic attacks, how work is the only thing that has made me feel like I have any worth, how I feel so desperate and scared that I don’t feel capable of making a rational decision.

Tristan listens. He does not interrupt. He does not make any suggestions. Finally, he puts a dry hand on my wet arm and says ‘You poor thing. That sounds shit.’

And I cry into the washing-up bowl, tears landing on the surface of the foamy water like rainfall, soft on a lake. And then, he takes me into his arms, and I cry in the crook of his shoulder, against his neck. His body is warm, solid, soap-scented. His hands are firm, both on my shoulder blades, never creeping downwards or sideways. Sam Strong would have had my bra off in seconds.

I don’t know if I’m there for ten minutes, or for an hour, but when every bit of moisture from my body has been absorbed by Tristan’s jumper, I let go of him and take a deep breath. ‘Thank you. I feel much better now.’

‘Please don’t feel obliged to take my unsolicited advice. But honestly—just talk to Harri. I don’t think you can be alone, in any of this. I know that’s how it feels. But it’s clear that you’re really talented, she must value you enormously, and you’re human. Everyone is allowed to make a mistake, and be properly sorry, and get a second chance. Everyone. No exceptions. You’ve been under a huge amount of stress. My Year Elevens genuinely think you’re better than Shakespeare.’ I sniff a bit, and it turns into a snort. Well done, Imogen. How attractive.

‘Maybe I should be a teacher?! I bet you’re really good at it. You must enjoy it?’