I don’t need divine intervention to inform me of this. There are the pressures at work. At home, things aren’t much better. This morning, I endured another cold flannel wash at the bathroom basin after my boyfriend, Jordan, again used all of the hot water in our flat. During, I should add, another of his suspiciously long showers – by his indifference towards me lately, Jordan could better be described as my supposed boyfriend. To fill you in a little bit, we met the same night I won the contract for the show. After a whirlwind courtship of the best sex I’d ever had, eighteen months on, our physical connection has fallen by the wayside. All less of him no longer being my hunk-a-hunk-of-burning-love and more Jordan no longer seeing me as his mi amore. On top of which, although we live together, we barely talk. Whatever friendship we shared has flatlined alongside my boyfriend’s libido. There’s the excuse that Jordan works ridiculous hours as an advertising executive. But things are so distant between us, we haven’t properly discussed what is – or, more to the point, isn’t – going on in our relationship. Let alone my professional challenges.

‘Ach… so much rain,’ Zelda clucks her tongue and shakes her head sadly. Over her closed eyelids is a poorly applied, pale purple eyeshadow. I don’t believe in clairvoyants, but I love a character – I adore Zelda. Whenever I cook anything like a Hungarian goulash or a sweet baklava pastry, Eastern European dishes that I know she’ll enjoy, I set aside a plate for Zelda.

Outside, lightning flashes, followed by a thunderous crack. A gust of wind slams the front doors shut. Zelda’s emerald eyes pop open.

I sigh my relief that we appear done. Holding up a bejewelled finger, Zelda begs of me a moment more.

She fumbles amongst the pockets of her cape and then inside her patchwork bag, her charm bracelets tinkling. Eventually, she withdraws her hands and slips a small, pink crystal into my open palm.

‘To help you little bit,’ she says. With a warm expression, Zelda shrugs.

I clasp the stone, smooth and surprisingly warm, inside my hand.

‘Quieten the storm.’ Zelda gently taps my chest with her bony finger. ‘Quieten the storm inside,’ she murmurs. ‘Then, all will be well.’

And with that, Zelda the Magnificent, resplendent in her sweeping satin cape and semi-precious trinkets, sweeps across the reception and disappears into the labyrinth of recording studios and meeting rooms beyond.

‘Can I see?’ Mitzi begs, intrigued.

I walk over and show her the small, smooth crystal. Pale pink, with ribbons of milky-white.

‘Gracie, this is a rose quartz,’ Mitzi exclaims, seemingly knowledgeable about such things. ‘It’s to attract romance and unconditional love.’

‘That wasn’t quite how Zelda put it,’ I admit.