‘We know loads of clubs that are open until 3 a.m.’

‘And later.’

‘I can’t promise how long I’ll last,’ I point out, already abandoning my plans to get up early. I decided to fix my life, but that includes finding joy. Having fun. I’m happy to be out, and being silly, with these two. And a spot of afternoon gardening is still on the table for tomorrow.

Little Mix are singing about getting an ex-boyfriend out of their hair – I’m dancing about, wearing rose-tinted clubbing glasses I won’t be taking out of the flat – feeling so empowered by their girl-power lyrics that I suggest I wouldn’t mind popping by Sway, to demand Jordan return my keys at once, on our way out.

I’ve already updated them on what’s happened in my life since I’ve seen them. The girls venture my proposal might not be my best idea. The party may be over, they point out reasonably, and Jordan might not be there. Another glass of champagne and I convince them we should crash the stupid work event en route.

I know Faith, for sure, wouldn’t let me go anywhere near.

We’re pulling up outside Sway on Great Queen Street, in Holborn, before I realise what a whimsical, alcohol-induced and bad – very bad – idea it is. Now, it’s too late to back out. Robert is out the front smoking a cigarette as the girls jump out of the cab before I can stop them. He rushes over as I tumble out after.

‘Good heavens. Gracie, lovely to see you.’ Robert greets me charmingly. ‘And who are your stunning companions?’ he adds, warming up to the girls.

Robert kisses my cheeks, always so kind, and I introduce him to Bip and Ban.

‘Jordan doesn’t know I’m here,’ I say.

‘No. What are you doing here?’ Robert asks. He isn’t being horrid.

‘I’ve come to collect my keys. Jordan won’t return my calls.’

‘Right. Well, perhaps, let me go and get them for you?’

Too soon, Jordan appears at the top of the stairs outside the club, looking – I must say – exceptionally dapper in a tuxedo, wearing a furiously sexy scowl. Seeing us, he flies down the stairs to right in front of me.

‘What are you doing here?’ he spits.

I’m teetering on low-heeled black boots in the borrowed black leather skirt, strapless red top and rosebud headband. I don’t even have a jacket—we went straight from the flat into a cab and, drunk, I barely noticed the cold. The girls are dressed in identical hot-pink micro-dresses with tiny, white fluffy cardigans.

‘Jordan, you won’t take my calls. I left you a message. I—’

‘I don’t care about my stuff and I don’t want to speak to you,’ he says. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Give me my keys and I’ll go.’