On account of my mystery boyfriend, I’m supposed to look cloak and daggerish. The atmosphere is perfect. Pitch-black. Foggy. Overhead, dark clouds gather steam for what promises to be an almighty downpour. I’m kitted out in a long, beige trench coat, thick black-rimmed glasses and a trilby hat. I turn the other way and force another spy-like smirk. Flash, click. I’m more Inspector Gadget than glamorous spy – I’m certain these photographs will look terrible, and I’m equally convinced Alex arranged it by design. We’ve never hit it off. The feelings I have about him are clearly mutual.

‘And now straight at me.’ Flash, click. ‘That’s it.’ Flash, click. Flash, click. ‘Again, the other way.’ Again?

‘Are we done yet?’ I ask, not looking the other way. ‘Alex, I’m freezing. I want to go home.’

He drops his camera to hang safely by the strap around his neck. He checks his watch. ‘Yes, okay. Time to interview the man of the hour.’

‘I am sorry, Alex, and I know I ought to have mentioned earlier, but I’m afraid you can’t interview Jordan. It’s no longer possible.’

‘What do you mean “no longer possible”?’ Alex snipes. ‘The interview with him was your idea.’

Before everything imploded, Jordan had agreed to do it, as a return favour for me facilitating the cat-sitting of Benny. After our argument at the flat just now, all bets are off. Alex doesn’t need to know about this, or even that we’re no longer a couple. I haven’t told Joanna yet – last week on the show, talking country music with Kenny S, I’d joked about my brooding Keith Urban at home. Faith said it was fine. Dramatisation. Harry raised his eyebrows at the time but hadn’t commented.

‘I know, Alex. But Jordan is adamant I don’t mention him any more, not even for the show. I am sorry, but there’s nothing to be done of it.’

Alex huffs and puffs and stomps about.

‘We can chat about anything else you like,’ I offer, trying to make amends, and not wishing to face the wrath of Joanna if this article goes wrong. ‘I can tell you about the time I won a singing contest at Butlin’s.’

Alex ceases pacing. ‘I’m sorry, did you just say a singing contest at Butlin’s? Stop the press!’

‘Fine, forget it. You can forget the entire interview with me, if you prefer.’

He packs away his lighting equipment.

‘If anyone at your magazine asks, tell them Joanna changed her mind. That should cover you.’

I’m set to march home in my horribly oversized trench coat when Alex grabs at my arm with his grubby, philandering fingers.

‘What do you mean, blame Joanna? I’m an independent journalist. I don’t appreciate your implication.’