Faith’s mother is younger than mine, and also attractive, but in a different way. Faith won the genetic lottery. Her DNA is the pinnacle of her family lineage. Appearance-wise, it could easily have gone the other way. She possesses a myriad of other qualities that would’ve seen her through, had she not been blessed with beauty. But still. Lucky Faith.

‘And you survived Beryl’s party?’

‘Barely. I was dressed like a perennial bridesmaid. The wine ran dry during the first course. And at the end of the evening, sweet old Angela fell asleep at the table and wet her pants.’

‘Oh my gosh.’

‘We put her to bed in Beryl’s spare room. It left me afraid of growing old, Faith.’

‘Your parents are fit as a fiddle, Gracie. You’ll be fine.’

After my mother cooked her unbeatable roast pork dinner for Sunday lunch, I’d struggled to keep up as we walked it off across Annie’s field, my parents daily ramble.

‘Daddy is a bit forgetful these days.’ I pause and wonder why I hesitate. ‘He got confused, forgot about Jordan and thought Harry was my boyfriend.’

‘Ha!’

It pinches when Faith doesn’t entertain the possibility of the notion. Not that Harry is my boyfriend. Obviously.

‘How are things with Jordan?’

I’d arrived home to an empty flat, a pig sty, nothing like the way I’d left it. Dirty dishes in the sink. Cartons of mostly-eaten Thai takeaway in the front room. The place stank of prawn toast. Curtains drawn. The duvet was tangled on the bed and there was a pile of wet towels on the bathroom floor. I’d no clue where Jordan was – presumably, something to do with work. Exhausted from my journey – Sunday train timetables are no traveller’s friend – I’d unpacked my overnight bag, tidied up, and hit the sack.

Jordan and I are like strangers passing in the night – except he’s taken to routinely falling asleep on the sofa.

By day, I’m inclined to end things. And distinctly less afraid Jordan might leave me first. Alone, in bed at night, fear and doubts creep in.

I don’t know what’s happened to us?

‘I got in last night, the flat was a tip, then Jordan rolled in half drunk and slept on the sofa,’ I reply to Faith.

‘Again?’

‘Again.’

‘What are you going to do, Gracie?’

‘I don’t know. But things can’t go on like this.’

‘No.’ Faith reaches out and squeezes my hand.

Tears mist my eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about this,’ I say. I fuss about in my bag, looking for some lip balm and reapply it. ‘Anyway… your date for the show this Wednesday, tell me, who is he?’