I sit alone, on the little ladder inside the cupboard in the toilets at work. In the flickering light, the crystals on my new designer heels sparkle prettily. This Valentine’s Day, I’d hoped a perfect outfit might make all the difference. In my heart, I’d imagined we might put the sparkle back into our relationship. Now, I’m less sure. Even when things were good between us, socialising with Jordan’s colleagues was a challenge for me. I get on famously with his creative partner, Robert (a good thing, given the amount of time Robert spends in my basement at home, messing about with Jordan – and no, absolutely not in that way). And the other girlfriends who sometimes join the Baker & Staines gatherings are friendly enough. But the girls who work in Jordan’s office – they’re quite another experience. No matter how hard I’ve tried to fit in, they’ve made no effort to include me. Jordan insists he doesn’t know what I mean by this, to which I’m unable to state exactly what I’d like them to do. Ask for my number and invite me to dinner? Of course not. But it’s tricky, sometimes, with girls who spend more time with my boyfriend than I do. What I’d like is for them to make me feel welcome, rather than as if I’m stomping uninvited onto their territory.

At the last event, a cocktail evening in Shoreditch two months ago, I gave up trying. While Jordan was busy networking with people he sees every day at his office, I propped up the bar with Robert. I sipped deliciously minty mojitos; Robert drained a good too many dirty martinis. (It probably bears mentioning that Robert looks a lot like the boyishly handsome comedian Jack Whitehall, with all of the charisma. Also, that Robert is impeccably attentive – in a purely gentlemanly way – to me at such events. We get on fabulously.) Together, we got rollicking drunk. I maintained some level of decorum; Robert got so sloshed, he toppled right off the back of his stool, causing quite the commotion. As a swarm of scantily dressed media assistants swooned to his aid, he slurred in my ear he doesn’t think much of the emaciated little twits himself. Stung by their rejection, I laughed too heartily. Under other circumstances, I would have loved to be whooping it up with the girls.

‘Jordan, can you hear me?’

No reply.

When Jordan and I first got together, we were always talking. And when we weren’t talking, things were even sweeter, if you know what I mean. Now, apart from us not getting on well, the spontaneous can’t-get-enough-of-each-other shagging that defined the beginning of our relationship has disintegrated into carnal abstinence. My boyfriend and I no longer have sex.

We’ve been this way for months.

Jordan blew out the flame. He just… stopped making the moves on me.