I wait for my boyfriend to make the usual excuse of running late for a meeting or being just in the middle of something. Instead, I’m greeted with a cheery, ‘Grace, hey, I’m here.’

Jordan calls me Grace, as do my parents. I find it endearing that he calls me by my proper name. To everyone else, I’m Gracie.

It’s a welcome surprise that he seems happy to hear from me.

‘Jordan, thank heavens,’ I say, relieved.

It’s all Jordan needs to take me completely the wrong way.

‘What’s up now?’ Jordan’s swift impatience is palpable, as if I only ever call him with problems, which isn’t true. These days, I hardly dare call my boyfriend at all.

‘Nothing’s up, Jordan,’ I reply, just as curt. Hurt, to be precise. ‘But since you ask, my shoot today was a disaster. The seafood was off. I got chilli in my eyes, which stung like hell. Then, to top things off, I vomited all over Poppy, right in front of everyone, the moment we finished the recording.’

I don’t know why I’m fine telling Jordan I vomited over someone, but I do not, under any circumstance, desire him to know my hair is turning grey.

‘You mean, you ate off seafood?’ Jordan says.

‘No, Jordan, I did not,’ I swipe back at him, swallowing an acrid taste of sickness in my mouth.

In the background, at his office, I hear banter. Our conversations are never helped by Jordan’s office being rife with mostly young, attractive females, all of them partial to eavesdropping. Many of who – as bulimics – also often happen to smell like spew.

‘Jordan, I have the meeting at work today with the new owners,’ I remind him. ‘I’m so nervous, I think I’ve made myself ill.’

For some time, there’s no response.

Then laughing heartily, Jordan screams into my ear, ‘BOOM!’

‘Jordan?’

Jordan isn’t listening to me. The background noise fades. The phone is covered over his end of the line.