Instead, I call Alex directly. Once I know what the rotter plans to do with the pictures, maybe I’ll know what to do. He doesn’t answer either.

Throwing Epsom salts and a few drops of lavender oil into the bath, I run the hot water – with just me in the flat, there’s enough to fill the tub. Stripping off my wet clothes, it’s cheering to see my stomach is tighter than it’s been in years. That’s one upside of tearing down the streets as if I’m Usain Bolt, Nikolai will be proud at my next check-in at the gym. I slip into the warm, scented water.

It doesn’t soak my cares away, but it helps. At one point, I step out to check my phone. No replies. After I’ve soaked myself until my fingers are wrinkly and the water is getting too cool to be comfortable, with nothing more I can do this evening, I take a herbal sleeping pill and a St John’s Wort tablet. I’ve been popping both daily since Poppy recommended them to me. The herbs help me sleep more soundly and the St John’s Wort, a natural remedy for anxiety, has lifted my mood. I see no harm in doing whatever is necessary to get me over this hump.

I read a little, and sip on some Horlicks, to ensure I venture soundly to the Land of Nod. On my way to untroubled sleep, my mobile switched off, I tuck myself into bed, warm under the covers. My hand slips under my pillow. The rose quartz is still there, warm as ever. When the storm passes, I hope it finds me again: love.

The following morning, Alex hasn’t returned my calls and isn’t answering his phone. In our dressing room, I relay everything to Faith and Poppy. and they help me sift through newspapers and check the internet on our phones. So far, there’s not a single shot of Jordan at his feline banquet.

‘Why was Jordan eating cat food?’ Poppy asks, not for the first time.

‘He’s career-obsessed? Benny wouldn’t choose the best flavour? Pussy Paws is supposed to be irresistible? I don’t know, Poppy. I don’t understand most of what Jordan does for his work. And he isn’t talking to me, so I can’t ask.’

I’d tried to call him this morning – to agree a mutual game plan for dealing with this, given the potential damage to both of our careers and to remind him, again, to shift the rest of his damn crap out of my basement. No answer.

I send Alex another text. Alex, this isn’t funny. I need to talk to you about the photos. Please call me. I’ve already sent him three like it, all of them ignored.