I say technically, because the chances of Seraph taking me on its books are borderline zero. Without Athena’s magical powers of persuasion, anyway.

‘Over my dead body.’ She takes a sip of the excellent white wine she’s brought along and flicks her perfect, glossy waves over her shoulder.

‘No. Over your goddaughter’s dead body.’

Even Athena, the chronic under-reactor, flinches at that. ‘That’s unnecessary. And overly dramatic.’

‘I’m serious. If you distil this situation to its barest bones, Tabby’s best chance of survival is an operation as soon as possible, especially if it avoids open-heart surgery. You know it and I know it.’

We were discharged from the hospital a couple of hours ago, thank God. It’s only eight o’clock, but Tabby fell asleep after a couple of lullabies, her tiny body exhausted from the day’s events. She insisted on sleeping in her sleeping bag inside the stunning (and ludicrously expensive) tent she got a few months ago when Athena insisted on playing Father Christmas. It came from Harrods and isn’t something I could ever, ever have afforded, but Athena suggested that Tabby treat it as her safe space between “battles”. So tonight, another battle bravely fought and won, my little warrior princess slumbers in her magical refuge.

Athena responded to my text messages like the goddess she is, by showing up at my flat with wine, chocolate, and yummy Whole Foods microwave meals, even though I told her not to and even though she has a huge new job and a disgustingly handsome, disgustingly rich, and disgustingly adoring boss-slash-boyfriend waiting for her to get home and warm up his bed, because that’s the kind of human being she is. Our deal is that she always brings the wine. She refuses to drink the “cheap shit” that’s within my budget.

I take her in and marvel, like I always do. Not only is she stunningly beautiful, with her huge hazel eyes and auburn tresses, but she’s put together in a way I can’t even dream of being. She’s in some sparkly tweed dress with big diamanté buttons that I suspect is Chanel and she could not look less at home among my IKEA furniture.

She’s also the singularly most fearsome and most impressive individual I’ve ever, ever met. I couldn’t ask for a better person to have in my corner.

‘I agree,’ she says in response to my assessment of Tabs’s health status. ‘And we both know this goes away tomorrow if you let me pay for it.’

‘Categorically not.’ I don’t need to expand on my argument. She knows my views. I’m not taking money she’s earned in such a brutal way. Especially not as she’s just taken a hefty pay cut. She’s no longer her boss, Gabe’s EA with benefits but his official girlfriend and the new CEO of his multi-billion-pound foundation.