Though I’ve hardly taken two sips, Faith tops up my glass of the wonderfully crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Two servings of soupe à l’oignon, the best onion soup I’ve tasted, with garlicky croutons and melted cheese on top, and a cassoulet of white beans stewed with duck meat are on their way. I drain about a third of my drink. Then, to my best friend in the whole world, I pour my heart out about the relationship woes that have plagued me for months.

Wrapped up in a nutshell, it doesn’t take me long.

Talking to Faith, I’m not as emotional as I thought I’d be. It’s a relief to let it all out.

When I’m done talking, Faith sighs. ‘Oh my, darling. You can’t sweep this under the carpet. You’ll wither on the vine. Better to rip off the Band-Aid, if it comes to that.’

‘Do you think it will come to that?’

When Gaspard shuffles over with our starters, we pause our conversation.

‘Personally, I don’t see much point in having a partner you’re not having sex with…’ Faith carries on.

The soup looks delicious. And too hot to dive into just yet.

Jordan and I aren’t married. There’s no children to think of. The way things are between us, we barely qualify as friends. If we’re not having sex, what is the point of us?

‘However, the only people who know what’s what in a relationship are the people in it. You and Jordan need to talk.’

‘We do…’

‘No matter what, I’m here for you, Gracie. Always.’

My phone rings. It’s Poppy. She’s heard from Harry – I’d given her the heads-up. True to his word, he bagged her a contract on the new show and she’s signed him as her agent. Down the line, Poppy is over the moon she will continue working not just with me but also Faith. We invite her to join us at our favourite little French place and after Poppy arrives, late lunch turns into cheese and crusty bread for early supper. By the time we settle the bill, I’ve sat here for over four hours and, between three of us, we’ve polished off four bottles of wine.

Not half as inebriated as last night, I’m still more than tipsy by the time I get into a cab and head home, wearing my big, old and hideous charity-shop grey coat, that I don’t lose on the way – I must hunt down my best black coat. I will have to check at work, the pub, the bar and then, if no luck, figure out how to track down a random Black cab tomorrow. Home safe, before I get into bed, I shower and put on flannel pyjamas. Jordan isn’t home. He texted to say it’ll be a late one at his office. Another big campaign.