We go to dinner at the Groucho, where you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting an A-list mover and shaker – Sienna Miller, Grayson Perry and, though I don’t recognise him by sight, when Harry mentions the name Damien Hirst, I know he’s an artist. In a quiet voice, me leaning in close to listen, Harry regales me with funny stories collected over years in showbiz circles and, more personally, about growing up in Canterbury, until his mother died of cancer when he was twelve. How his father has remarried no less than three times since, and the collection of half- and step-siblings he’s accumulated along the way as a result. He tells me his current stepmother is younger than him by a decade – Harry is bang on forty. About his ‘second home’, a flat down in Hastings, where he escapes London. How he jogs five miles along the Thames every morning and is also into clay pigeon shooting, when he finds the time. We talk about his brief foray into journalism. ‘Watch out for Alex,’ he says. ‘He’s got good connections, Joanna isn’t silly. But he’s a tabloid journalist. Be careful.’

I talk about my father – Harry jokes he’s in love with my mother – about how Faith and I have known each other forever. I confess I’m still slightly scared of Joanna and how lucky I feel that everything is coming together with our show. I thank Harry for his contribution to this. It hits me that I don’t have any hobbies or interests to share with him – no favourite bands, like Poppy, no succession of flings, or a cat, or Pilates and the occasional Thai-boxing, like Faith. What is it that fills me with joy, I suddenly find myself wondering, that’s just for me? I make a mental note to at least enquire about joining the gym.

As we finish espressos, having shared a lovely bottle of Malbec over our dinner of chateaubriand with albufera sauce and truffle mashed potato, for two, Harry asks what I’m doing for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.

Except to say he’s busy working tonight, I haven’t mentioned Jordan.

‘Oh, well, my boyfriend has a work do, so not a lot, I expect. But it’s fine,’ I carry on, not wishing to elicit charity after such a wonderful evening, ‘I’m not really into Valentine’s Day.’

A lie I told myself every year that I was single. Last year, I loved Valentine’s Day. This year, I’m trying to forget about it.

‘Women deserve flowers every day?’ Harry asks, cheeky grin.