Setting my alarm for 6.45 a.m., I resolve to get up early and talk to him in the morning.

I turn off the lights.

By morning, I’ll have had nine hours’ sleep. That’ll clear the wine.

By morning, I tell myself, as I drift off to sleep, all will be well.

The next morning, I snooze through my alarm and I don’t get up early. The afternoon and all of Friday, I’m at the station working next steps with Faith, Poppy, Harry and Joanna. Jordan is at his work, then out entertaining a client, then at a rugby day with Robert that ends well into Saturday evening. What with one thing and another, it’s Sunday morning before we’re together in the flat, awake and available to talk.

‘Jordan, are you ready?’ I call in the direction of the basement, where he’s already working. It’s 10 a.m.

‘One minute,’ Jordan shouts, his third time in as many minutes.

I pull the pan off the gas.

When he heard me out of bed and making myself a cup of tea, Jordan asked if I could make him one of my mouth-watering big breakfasts. Now, my boyfriend is behaving like I’m pestering him to eat.

If he carries on, breakfast will be ruined.

The eggs will poach to rubber.

The tomatoes will stew in their own juices.

I watch the sizzle cool out of the bacon.

On the kitchen table, in a cut-glass vase, is a glorious bouquet of soft-pink roses with sprigs of berries and dusty miller. The arrangement arrived yesterday, sent by Harry. Faith received the same bunch, as did Poppy.

I must say, it’s nice having a proper agent.

Jordan makes his way up into the kitchen.

‘Mmm, smells good.’ He picks a piece of bacon from the pan. I shoo him off. ‘Sorry, I’m starving.’

At the table, Jordan assembles a pile of weekend newspapers. He picks up the card by the vase. ‘Who’s Harry?’

‘My new agent.’

‘Ah.’

He flicks open the Mail on Sunday. I don’t know why, because there isn’t anything to it, but it bothers me Jordan isn’t more interested at another man sending me a beautiful big bunch of flowers. He’s sizing up a full-page advertisement of a grey cat leaping at a feather toy. Where my father reads the news, my boyfriend reads the ads.

‘Here’s the account I’m trying to close.’ I scoop the poached eggs out of the boiling water. ‘“Pussy Paws, when only the best will do”,’ Jordan parrots from the sheet. ‘Lame. But good for us the incumbent agency is rubbish!’

His toast pops.

‘Can you believe the pet market is worth over eight billion dollars in the UK?’ he goes on. ‘Eight billion. For pets!’

Unless it’s to eat them, Jordan isn’t partial to animals. We had a cocker spaniel, Tilly, until I was twelve. I love dogs.