‘Sorry, yes. I was exhausted from work and fell asleep early. Congratulations. By the way, you did wake me when you came in. I tried to help you to bed. You were really drunk.’

Jordan’s tone is nonchalant. But I suspect I embarrassed myself more than being very inebriated last night.

‘I probably don’t want to know the details, Jordan. I’ll cook us a nice dinner tonight to make it up to you? And… can we maybe talk, later? Or will you have to work?’

Jordan sucks his breath in. ‘Not sure how my day will pan out. Dinner sounds good. What time are you leaving and what time will you be home today?’

‘Leaving shortly and I can be home by early afternoon. Do you need me to do anything, Jordan?’

‘No. No, just wondering.’

‘Okay.’

‘I have to run.’

‘Okay. Have a great day and see you tonight, babe.’

‘See ya.’ Jordan rings off.

My head isn’t quite working the way it should, but that was a bit of a funny conversation. Not unpleasant. Indeed, it was nice of Jordan to call me. But it seemed to me… short? Odd? Pointless? Perhaps because it’s been months since Jordan and I have called each other for short, pointless conversations about nothing? Surely, I shouldn’t worry. I mean, we didn’t fight. Jordan sounded happy about dinner and, subject to work, open to talking later.

I was worried sick about work, but I didn’t lose my job – I can’t say I’m thrilled with what I may be signing up to, but I didn’t get fired. Maybe, the tide is turning for Jordan and me, too?

I decide to carry on positively. Even if my body feels like it’s been to war.

To accelerate my recovery, I make myself a fresh fruit smoothie with banana, frozen raspberries, yoghurt and a handful of spinach. Not wanting to linger now that I’m up and at it, I ping an email to Liz Martin to see if she can meet earlier than our usual 3 p.m. She confirms she’s free from 11. To squeeze in our catch-up before I meet with Harry at noon, and have the afternoon to myself, I’ll have to get a move on.

Gulping my smoothie, I accidentally miss my mouth – I’m kidding myself to think I’m not still monstrously hung-over, possibly still intoxicated – and pureed fruit and yoghurt splashes all over my pretty top and favourite jeans. Gagggggghhh.

I clear up the mess also over the kitchen floor. Running late, I throw on some clean clothes and get myself out of the flat.

The cafe where I regularly meet Liz Martin is near Green Park Tube station. I rush in dripping water everywhere. Outside, it’s raining again.

‘Hi, Liz. Golly, this umbrella is soaked. Ugh, let me put it under the table. Oh gosh, sorry, that’s your foot.’