It’s a lovely thought. I laugh. And don’t offer a response. Albeit, I want to ask Harry who he sends flowers to. I know from my mother he isn’t married. He spends significant time with us on set, and he’s been out with me of an evening now twice in as many weeks, so, probably, he doesn’t have a significant other in his life right now.

‘I best call an Uber,’ I say, noticing the time is close to midnight.

‘I’ll book you a car,’ Harry offers.

He settles the bill and we walk together out onto Dean Street. There’ll be no mooching the streets looking for a ride home this evening. Minutes later, the gloved driver of a flashy Mercedes Benz sedan whisks me safely to my flat in Maida Vale, me marvelling at how my life became so glamorous so fast.

14

Monday evening, Jordan and Robert cloister themselves in the basement, working. They won the Pussy Paws account and are busy with a new campaign for cat food. I’m in the front room, about to view the first episode of Eat Me broadcast across the whole of the United Kingdom. Faith is on the landline with me.

‘I’m so excited, Gracie.’

I pull a blanket over me. ‘I’m worried.’

‘Don’t be silly, we’ll be a hit.’

‘A hit our parents, and all their friends, will see, Faith.’

This morning, my mother was on the phone confirming how she’s told everyone from the charity shop and at church to tune in for the new show. I warned her, too, late, that the show is quite risqué. She just laughed and asked me how I thought I’d come to be here. With the thought of my parents having sex, I almost put down the phone on her!

‘Your mother watched Sex in the City,’ Faith says. ‘Stop stressing. Pour yourself some wine.’

I hear Faith clunk down a bottle. Stupidly, I never thought to get any in.

‘We’re not like Sarah Jessica Parker, Faith. You do realise we’re not acting.’

‘We’re dramatising,’ she points out.

A fair point. I stow it carefully in mind.

‘Is Jordan watching with you?’

‘No.’

‘Working?’

‘Downstairs.’

‘Shame…’

‘Not necessarily…’

The first episode, airing any minute now, will include the incident with the chipolata – I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve wished I’d picked up the damn courgette.

‘Too late now. It’s starting.’