I’m half-naked in a changing room. Having discarded five dresses as unsuitable, I’m getting back into the tailored silvery-grey trouser suit Poppy first suggested. ‘As my date, you mean?’

‘Yes, as your date. You need to find someone. Perhaps I’ll show off all I’ve learned and cook for you?’

Clapping her hands, Poppy squeals in excitement. ‘Yes’

‘He is incredibly good-looking,’ I say, weighing things up. I’m not opposed to the ego boost I’d get from flaunting Carlos on television – a bit bitterly, I imagine Rhiannon and all her friends watching when it airs and realising that, in Jordan, she scooped the consolation prize. It would, among other things, provide indisputable proof that I’ve moved on from the romantic slips of my past – that someone so hot, physically way hotter than me and any man I’ve ever been with, can’t keep his hands off me. ‘I suppose I could. Do you think Joanna will go for it? His English isn’t great.’

‘My cooking isn’t great,’ Faith says.

‘He is gorgeous, Miss Gracie.’

‘Our women viewers will love him. In which case, so will Joanna.’

‘Oh my, Gracie. That’s the outfit! It’s perfect on you.’ Faith gasps as I button the jacket up. I step outside the changing room to inspect myself in natural light. I can’t believe I’m contemplating wearing a trouser suit to the TIARAs – Faith will look old school glamorous in an off-the-shoulder Grecian dress and Poppy has chosen a girly, floaty little number. But of all the outfits I’ve tried on, in all the boutiques we’ve visited, I feel most comfortable in this suit. The silver flecks play beautifully with my eyes. It will go perfectly with my crystal Jimmy Choo high heels. And although a pantsuit, it’s incredibly feminine. And sexy – the jacket clinches at the waist but it’s otherwise slit open and worn with a matching bra that’s meant to be seen. The trousers are slim over my legs, taper at the ankles and hug my bum in all the right places. This is not me attempting to go all Annie Hall, the suit is gorgeous.

However, the TIARAs are one of Britain’s most prestigious television ceremonies. It’s not the BAFTAs – it’s more populist – but the press will be out in force. Men may wear kilts – but a woman in a suit?

I check my figure once more in the big mirror, from the front, the back and the side. I’m not convinced my thighs are thin enough for silver trousers. My tummy isn’t half as flat as it could be for such a nipped-in-at-the-waist jacket.

‘Poppy, I’m not a hundred per cent convinced. Are you sure?’

‘I’m two hundred per cent sure.’