The moment we wrap the shoot, I throw up in front of everyone and over poor Poppy’s feet. I blame the stress of the last-minute change in menu and the big meeting looming. In about an hour’s time, there’s every chance I could lose my job. The crew blame the lingering smell of rancid seafood. I’ve never seen the set clear so fast. Only Poppy, her panda-festooned boots splattered with my sick, stays put to help.

‘Miss Gracie, you go on to the bathroom and sort yourself out,’ she insists. Usually, we clear up together and spend the afternoon ordering ingredients, sketching out future shows or completing paperwork with Robin. Today there’s nothing to prepare for. If I don’t survive the meeting, our show is toast. I insist I really must clean up my own vomit.

‘Go on, you need to sort yourself out before you meet with those execs,’ Poppy counters, escorting me out of the studio door. ‘You’d do it for me.’ I would do the same for Poppy – even if I’d perhaps start retching myself. ‘I’ll come find you when I’m done.’

I make my way to the Ladies’.

In front of the mirror, I see why my assistant was so keen to send me on: I look like death warmed up. My skin is sickly green. My lips, the pink stain wiped off with some kitchen towel, are not far off the same shade. My mascara is so smudged, around my eyes looks like hollow pits of black – I’d wiped my brow after chopping up the mega hot chillies and barely held back burning tears during the recording. Inspecting my reflection closely, I discover my very first grey hair. Oh, when it rains, it pours! I pull it out sharply.

No one is in here to see me in such a decrepit state. But this could change at any moment. The door to the cleaner’s cupboard ajar, it seems a better place for me to recover in private.

I poke my head through the opening. Inside, the shelves are lined with cleaning products. A broom and a mop inside a steel bucket are propped against one wall, a small stepladder in the centre. On every surface, the paint is peeling. I tug a cord and the light overhead flickers on. I do a quick check for spiders. All clear. Stepping in, I sit gingerly on the top rung of the little ladder. I pull the heavy fire-proof door shut.

It’s very cramped in here.

The smell of disinfectant is overwhelming.

What on earth am I doing hiding inside a cupboard?

Taking my mobile from my handbag, I call Jordan.

His mobile rings out, unanswered.

‘Jordan Piper,’ he answers, after the first ring to his work line.

‘Jordan, hi, it’s me. Can you talk?’