When I arrive home and unpack, it occurs to me I do have a hobby – nesting. I find genuine joy keeping my home beautiful and full of comforts, so that every time I walk in, the mood is welcoming. I cook, bake and freeze delicious snacks and treats to share with the people I love, including myself. I am a domestic goddess – and I’m not ashamed to say, I revel in my pottering.

Stripping the bed back, I discover the pink quartz crystal has fallen between the mattress and the headboard. I tuck it inside my new mirrored jewellery box.

Zelda and her warning.

I haven’t fixed everything in my life yet. But I’m on my way.

In the morning, Faith is at my place when Jordan calls to say he can’t make it for the clear-out. Of course, he has more important things to do at his work. ‘And there’s a Baker & Staines cocktail evening tonight, at Sway,’ he says. ‘I’ll be in no fit shape tomorrow. Could I perhaps come around one evening next week?’

No Jordan can’t perhaps come round one evening next week – his perhaps will inevitably turn into another no-show – and I don’t have to put up with his work nonsense any more. Surely, that’s part of the deal of us breaking up. Furious, I tell him he has until noon tomorrow, or everything is going on the street outside.

When I put the phone down, Faith remarks he’ll find another excuse tomorrow because she noticed when she was cleaning up the other day there’s nothing worth keeping down there. Jordan took his X-box when he left the last time, after the scene with Alex. When I call him back to insist that he come today, as arranged, and he doesn’t bother to answer, Faith offers to stay and help me chuck it all without delay.

We deconstruct every cheap piece of home office furniture that Jordan accumulated throughout our eighteen months of living together. It’s cathartic, even if I do splinter my finger and nick my calf on some sticking-out screws. We cart everything to the back of my building, where our maintenance man, David, will dispose of it next week. We bin the old newspapers and empty soda cans. It takes a good few hours but, once the basement is clear, I feel free.

Excited by the prospect – I thought I’d be so terrified – I outline my plans to convert the space downstairs into a proper potting shed, ready for summer. Faith’s excited to come round and sit outside on the grassy mound and drink white wine with me, like old times.

My flat exorcised of Jordan and my mortgage papers in order, Faith is preparing to leave when she asks me, ‘Are you mad that I called Harry the other day?’

‘No. You did the right thing, Faith. You always do’