Over several gin and tonics, Jordan told me he was in the advertising game, and in the club to entertain the editors of a men’s fashion magazine, all of them out and proud homosexuals. I found it endearing when he waved awkwardly at his bare-chested clients as they gave it their all under the whirling glitter balls – if only I’d known Jordan’s work obsession would become the bane of our future relationship. Wearing black jeans and a blue Paul Smith shirt, in the dim of the club especially, he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome – and my, oh my, was he brooding.

Full of alcohol and bravado about my new career in television, I did the unthinkable. I made the first move.

I asked Jordan if he’d like to come and dance with me. Throwing me his sexy scowl, Jordan declined. ‘Not here.’ I boldly suggested, ‘Perhaps at my place?’

Jordan smiled. It was that easy.

Our sex that night was a solid 10. The best I’d ever had. Jordan may not have wanted to dance, but between the sheets, the man had moves. For what felt like hours, he directed all of his passion onto me. Then, confidently, he guided me as to exactly what he wanted for himself. I saw fireworks.

It had been so long since I’d been with anyone. I rarely fancied anyone; I almost never took the risk of checking if they fancied me back. Not once had I picked up someone I’d just met in a club and taken them home with me.

Afterwards, Jordan held me in his arms. I rested my head onto his chest. Conversation flowed. Our passion came in waves.

I was instantly smitten. If you’ll pardon the pun, Jordan was very much into me, too. We spent the following day together. The next evening, after work, same again. Night after night, we repeated. Jordan never really left.

Within the month, he’d officially moved out of his Willesden house-share and into my Maida Vale flat, just the two of us. Filming commenced on my cookery show the following week.

I believed I’d made it. The job, the man, the life.

What a difference it all is today.

In the cupboard, the light overhead has stopped flickering. It’s better for my nausea. But the crystals on my new shoes have lost their sparkly lustre.

I can’t keep pretending nothing is wrong in my relationship. Pretending isn’t making anything better. Somewhere in my silence, I’m losing more than just my voice.

I call Jordan back, on his mobile.

‘Grace, did you hang up on me?’

‘Sorry, I, er, you seemed busy, Jordan,’ I say.

‘I’m at work.’

Jordan sounds busy, but not cross. Or maybe I can’t tell the difference any more?

‘Of course, Jordan. I’ll be quick.’

‘Please. It’s not a good time.’