Faith explains the exact circumstances of my eminent eviction. Jordan offers to nip down to Tesco and hire a steam cleaner, which is good thinking – for someone who probably couldn’t say where we keep our vacuum, not sure how he came up with it. And I’m still incredibly cross with Jordan. There are hard feelings. But I’m grateful he’s going to help.

The three of us whizz around the place like Mrs Hinche and, by 5 p.m., the sofa is showroom fresh, if too wet to sit on, and the entire flat is sparkling clean. I light some scented Scandinavian candles. The place smells like a Nordic pine forest by the time Philip Maxwell of Maxwell & Maxwell solicitors arrives to enquire if I have any idea how ‘very far off my interpretation of responsible tenancy is from the good and honourable Mrs Whitbury’s?’

Intimidated by his stern demeanour, and unable to shake an image of a distraught June wearing the yellowed wedding dress I last saw her in at Beryl’s dinner party, I rely on Faith to do her thing and step in. As only Faith can, she walks Philip calmly through ‘the situation’, as he keeps referring to it.

In her best business voice, Faith impresses there most certainly has never been an unauthorised pet residing permanently at the address and that the flat is usually kept in pristine condition. Philip acknowledges it’s far more presentable than when he entered yesterday. Then he informs us that, while that might be well and good, events have nonetheless convinced June to sell. I’m to leave within the month regardless.

On such news, Faith leaps into negotiations that see me agreeing to purchase the property outright. I love living here, it’s more than a silver lining result. The price set, though exorbitant, is reasonable. Faith assures me she knows a broker who will sort a mortgage. Within the hour, Philip leaves with a legally binding purchase arrangement – and a twinkle in his eye that I can only attribute to being well and truly won over by Faith.

When Jordan leaves to return the steam-cleaner, I ask him to come back with boxes so he can pack up his stuff in the basement.

Faith leaves to get ready for Drake’s party. I can’t believe I have to go out again tonight.

Jordan returns while I’m showering. Stepping out of the bathroom, I hear music wafting up from downstairs. I dry my hair and put on some slap. For a body suffering from champagne-cocaine abuse, I scrub up quite nicely. Getting dressed, I slip into an old dress, black and not too fancy, that feels refreshingly loose on account I’ve hardly eaten in three days. Jordan is still in the basement, packing his crap.

As I’m heating through a home-made chicken risotto from the freezer, he pops up.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask.

‘Getting there.’