We shop. We shop until my feet ache and my arms are weighed down by bags of new clothes. When we are done, we take a cab to Faith’s flat, where I hold the car until Faith bundles Benny into his carry cage and onto on my lap in the backseat. Beside me, she piles in all of his necessities: a litter tray, a bag of food, toys and, for good measure, his cat-nip-banana that gets him stoned.

It’s only after we drive off, me gripping Benny’s cage for dear life, that I realise I should have passed the bags of my new clothes to Poppy, who’d taken hers and Faith’s back to the studio in another taxi. After all the traipsing about in the shops and trying things on, we were all worn-out to think. Poppy whizzed us through what felt like every boutique and chain store between Carnaby Street and Selfridges. I’d purchased slimming Seven denim jeans and an assortment of pretty dresses, skirts and tops from Ted Baker, with accessories to match. All of it on the company tab.

Home to Maida Vale, Benny and everything else transported in several missions back and forth from the kerb, I flop myself onto the sofa.

Jordan isn’t in yet.

From the floor, there’s a soft meow. I look down and Benny stares up at me through the slits in his carry cage with his gorgeous green eyes. I unhinge the latch and he steps tentatively out onto the rug. He lets loose a blood-curdling howl. I don’t speak cat, but his message is clear. This is not my home and you are not my mummy. In a flurry, I offer him special lactose-free cat milk and some of his favoured Royal Canin pellets, all of which he refuses in favour of exploring.

He pokes about behind the curtains before crossing the front room to sniff my shoes and claw on my doormat. Scampering off into the bedroom, he inspects under the bed and inside the wardrobe. He prowls into the hallway. Relaxing into his surroundings, Benny performs a big cat-yoga stretch.

I race to the basement and check that the windows are closed. When I return upstairs, Benny is in the kitchen crunching his kibble. He curls around my legs and purrs. I set up his litter tray. When he goes straight in and does a wee, I relax.

Physically exhausted from the day of shopping, I flump myself flat on the sofa. Benny’s footsteps tap on the stairs to the basement. I assume he’s also finding a quiet spot to nap. Isn’t that what cats do – sleep?

I doze off. I awaken when Jordan bursts through the front door. I’m managing a clumsy, half-asleep, ‘Hey,’ when Jordan shouts at me.

‘I can’t believe you’ve done this to me.’ He’s beside the sofa, shaking with rage.

I sit up. ‘Jordan, what’s happened?’