‘Fun. We’re getting the hang of the new show.’ Wine glasses teeter in the drying rack. ‘Have you been drinking wine?’ Jordan will sometimes crack open a beer the moment he walks into the flat. But wine?

‘Taste testing. We’re pitching for a French vineyard.’

‘Ah.’ Two empty bottles sit by the bin. I’m guessing Robert’s been here, and I presume he washed the glasses. ‘Any good?’

‘Not bad, actually.’

My apprehension dissolves. Jordan’s merry.

‘Jordan, while I’ve got you, I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s the deal for this ball?’ I take the flyer from the refrigerator and scan the details, a reminder. The Sweetheart’s Valentine’s Day Ball, sponsored by Baker & Staines, is next week. The Jimmy Choo heels (and I) survived my drunken antics the other evening, but I haven’t yet bought a new black dress. To be honest, I’ve been too busy to have thought about it much at all.

Jordan glances over. ‘It’s not really a ball.’

The flyer says otherwise.

‘It’s a work thing, a promotions event,’ he goes on. ‘No one is bringing their partner.’

‘Oh. Right.’

In fairness, Jordan never invited me. I’d found the flyer on the kitchen table and assumed I’d be going. Not unreasonably, I might add, given it is to be held on Valentine’s Day and we are, officially, a couple. I’d stuck the invitation under a magnet on the refrigerator. Jordan hasn’t mentioned it.

‘I know it’s Valentine’s Day,’ he says, ‘but we didn’t go out last year.’

Again, technically correct. Last year, I’d cooked at home, filet mignon, and we had sex all over the flat. We definitely didn’t go out.

I pass Jordan the flyer and he slips it inside his backpack. Out of sight, out of mind? He stands beside the table, eyeing the stairs.

‘Jordan, we need to talk.’

‘Grace, it’s no big deal. I have to work, okay. I can’t deal with this right now.’

Without giving me the chance to explain that Valentine’s Day is the least of things we need to talk about, Jordan scuttles off to the basement. Our communication is awful. But this takes the biscuit. Upset – nay, angry – about his silly ball, his stupid underpants and that Jordan refuses to talk to me about anything important, I lock myself in the bedroom and call Faith to vent.

‘Do you really think it’s a work thing?’ she asks me.

‘I don’t know, Faith.’

‘And if it is, why can’t you go? What sort of work makes their staff ditch their partner on Valentine’s Day?’

I sigh into the mouthpiece, not as upset as I could be. Indeed, with Faith on the offensive, I feel, remarkably, defensive about Jordan’s actions. Or about my decision to perpetually put up with them. At this point, with the demands of his job, I must assume the not-really-a-ball is a work event. And there is always the chance Jordan will surprise me with a romantic gesture when he gets in after.