Only, when we calm ourselves, it’s apparent we didn’t finish our private repartee in the hushed intonations in which we started. That we must have carried on our confab after the ruckus at the big table had finished. The room is pin-drop silent, all eyes on us.

‘Gentlemen, what did I tell you?’ Joanna exclaims, sweeping her hand triumphantly towards us. ‘Food porn with a capital P! Ladies, that was wonderful!’ She glares at Brian. ‘The idea of man candy, a different guest each week, what a hook!’

She and Timothy launch into talking about multi-camera production for a weekly show, probably airing on a Monday or Tuesday evening, most likely after the 9 p.m. watershed.

Nothing comes out of my mouth.

Faith looks like the cat who got the cream.

Joanna beams very much like a woman who has just got what she wanted. ‘I just love the name,’ she gushes. ‘Eat Me…’

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.

Before I can protest, to clarify the gross misunderstanding that’s just occurred, Brian is instructed to work through numbers and get an offer to us as early as tomorrow. Evidently, he lost their spat. Timothy offers to put us in touch with a professional agent, if we prefer.

Does he imagine this is a show Faith and I will host together?

‘That would be great, thank you, Timothy,’ Faith replies.

Is she possibly thinking she wants to be on such a show with me?

Either way, I’m not sure I’ll need an agent any more. They’re all talking food porn – not the drooling over a perfectly melting-in-the-middle chocolate soufflé sort of food porn, but food porn with a capital P. That may, or may not, require somebody – certainly not me – sticking sexually loaded Post-it notes onto a new man’s candy every week. That’s close enough to what I think Joanna believes we just pitched. And I really, really don’t think so.

I may not know my USP. But, given I can barely woo my own boyfriend, I know it isn’t this. Absolutely not.

With a charm offensive, Joanna smiles at me warmly. ‘I’m looking forward to working with you closely, Gracie, now I know you better.’

I can’t believe I manage to spit out, ‘Absolutely, Joanna. Me too.’

6

‘Faith, I’m not doing it.’

‘Gracie, are you home yet?’

I stumble out of the cab, tipsy. It’s well past midnight. I attended Howard’s farewell, which also turned into something of a wrap party for Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together and, ostensibly, a celebration of whatever this next show may be.