‘By the way, I liked your postscript, in the ad. “No advertising executives harmed by the taste-testing.” Very funny.’

Jordan laughs heartily. ‘I thought you might like it.’

A month ago, he was storming out over the cat food-eating incident and I was throwing his stuff to the rubbish. Today, it’s a funny story we can laugh about.

‘It’s nice to talk to you, Grace.’

‘You too. How’s Rhiannon?’

After a short – but not uncomfortable – silence, Jordan says, ‘I don’t think we should discuss her.’

‘No, you’re right.’

‘I best get back to my desk. Thanks for calling. Take care.’

‘You too.’

Which is a pleasant enough finish to a pleasant enough conversation – things could have gone worse. Yet as I enter SC6, my feet aren’t as light on the ground as they were earlier this morning.

After my conversation with Jordan, it’s some time before the spring in my step returns.

32

On set to record our tenth and final episode of the first season, today I get to showcase sexy South American Carlos as my first ever on-air date.

Small hiccup is Carlos isn’t here yet and he should be.

I’m increasingly concerned Carlos didn’t understand my instructions regarding the shoot. It was probably also a mistake not to answer any of his numerous calls yesterday and last night – I’ve been cooling things off with our private arrangement, but my timing was perhaps ill-conceived. While the orgasms are incredible – I can’t overstate the importance of restoring my self-esteem, my mojo, after Jordan flatlined it – the thing is, Carlos is starting to grate on my nerves. My appetite for him is, regrettably, waning.

It’s the little things.

How he hums salsa tunes incessantly – even, sometimes, when we’re in bed.

And leaves the toilet seat up after he pees.

And doesn’t close the door on his other ablutions.

The sex-stained boxer shorts strewn across my pillow.

Used condoms in my bathroom sink.

Pubic hair in my soap.

Bless him, but Carlos’s cheap aftershave plays havoc with my sinuses.

There’s also the somewhat delicate matter that, sometimes, sex with Carlos is too uninhibited. I don’t want his spunk over my face. Ever. Nor his attempts, on more than one occasion, to put things that don’t belong inside me inside me. How he screams in ecstasy ‘CRAZIE,’ every time he comes, so loud I worry we’ll wake the neighbours.

If all that wasn’t enough, I’m increasingly concerned he’s angling to move in with me. From his broken conversation, I’ve learned he shares a studio apartment on Leicester Square with three other grown men. He’s already ceremoniously moved his toothbrush into the glass beside mine – I suspect it’s only a couple of white T-shirts and a spare pair of black trousers to make it official.

I’ve only known him a week.