Saturday night. No reason I can’t pop out for a little while and still stick to my plans for tomorrow. Deciding to join Faith and Poppy at The Tricycle Club, I call Faith to let her know I’m coming. Her mobile is out of signal and I can’t reach her. Not to worry, Faith had mentioned she’d be at the club from 8. By the time I arrive, it’ll be after 11. If I can’t reach her, I’ll find her inside.

In case the extra sleeping tablet kicks in later than expected, I gulp a strong cup of black coffee. And then another.

I get dressed to impress. Sleek black trousers, satin singlet, Stella McCartney blazer. Small concession on the low-heeled black boots. Overall, black is slimming. And my increasingly designer wardrobe is flatteringly tailored. By the time I’ve slapped on blusher, mascara, lipstick and boots, I’m fancying myself as pretty foxy. Even if I say so myself, my investment at the gym is working wonders on my buttocks, in particular. I look – and feel – like a billion-dollar babe. Fergilicious is blaring from my phone. Old school bootilicious – moi? You bet.

And who knows? Getting myself out, I might well meet someone who’s kind, funny, sexy, hopefully handsome, and who likes me back. I’m not looking back at Jordan – and I don’t have to pin my hopes on Harry. Meeting my Prince Charming could, in the realms of possibility, happen as early as this evening.

Letting go of my past failures and insecurities, I book an Uber.

As I set off into Soho in the back of 5* rated Nabil’s Toyota Prius, I’m radiating positive energy.

Who knows what joyful surprise my future holds?

Whatever it is, I’m ready.

When I arrive at the club, it’s just gone 11.30 p.m. The pubs have closed and the queue outside snakes around the corner. I haven’t connected with Faith. If her phone is still out of range, it’s because she’ll be downstairs with Poppy, without reception. If she’s left for home already, I’d be able to reach her. Harry is away in Brighton for a wedding. Tentatively, I make my way to the front doors, bypassing the line of people.

‘Hello,’ I say to the bouncer. He’s short and stocky and his face is grumpy. Is this Duncan, from the door and dance floor on my last visit here?

‘Name?’ He barely glances at me.