Poppy hugs me tighter. ‘I’m not cross with you, Miss Gracie,’ she says.

We’ve transcended being colleagues. Bless her, Poppy is my friend.

When I calm down, she props me up on the pillows. Fussing about in her handbag, she presses a few small pills into my hand.

‘What are they?’

‘Milk thistle to support your liver, St John’s Wort to lift your mood and vitamin Bs for your nerves. They’re drugs to help you feel better, poppet.’

I protest I don’t want any more drugs and from somewhere in the kitchen I hear clanging.

Poppy insists the tablets are entirely herbal and perfectly legal. I agree to take them on the condition I can be left alone to wallow in private.

I swallow everything and Poppy leaves the room. Shortly after, I hear her leave the flat.

When Faith checks in on me about an hour later and I’m still restless, she returns with more sleeping pills – the strong ones. I know Faith has them purely for when she’s had to take a red-eye flight from New York to London and head straight into her office after landing.

I take them without question.

‘I’m going to fix my life,’ I say.

‘Shh. Gracie, it was just one night, a silly mistake.’

But it’s not just one night. It’s not just one silly mistake. My life isn’t working for me. I’m sad, too much of the time. I’m lonely, even when I’m not alone. I’m becoming petty and jealous and I never used to be like this. I want to be the joyous, Gracie who everyone loved to laugh and have fun with. Mostly, I want to love myself again – because though I’ve never been the best or thinnest person in the room, I never used to compare. For as long as I can remember, until recently, I was always pretty good at doing me.

‘No, it’s not that. I don’t like my life the way it is. I’m going to fix it. I’m going to fix me.’

‘Okay, darling. But now shh. Go to sleep.’

I relent. I relax. Faith stays with me, silently, until I succumb.

21

When I venture out of Faith’s spare room, she’s stretched out on her living room floor, stroking a contented-looking Benny, both of them basking in a slither of sunshine. Faith embodies effortless chic in flannel pyjamas – words that don’t usually go together, ‘chic’ and ‘flannel pyjamas’, but she pulls it off. I’m still in the Thursday night clothes. Cleavage-making black top. Pink ruffles to my knees.

‘Afternoon.’ Faith stretches her long limbs. On the carpet, Benny does likewise.

‘Afternoon?’

‘It’s just gone noon.’

‘No.’