The food has arrived. The five-star-rated creamy pasta is plonked down before me, swirling and bubbling in a traditional hand-painted Italian bowl. The pizza, thick with fresh dough and glistening with buffalo mozzarella, is placed down opposite. For Jack. He might have ordered something more meaty, but my thinking was that this isn’t takeaway on a Friday night. This is London’s top Italian and Jack would have gone classic.

I eat fast. Decadence on a plate. The pace of the restaurant keeps me moving, eating, chewing, washing it down with wine. I could be mistaken but the lights seem dimmer, the music louder. I wipe my chin with my pink napkin.

A quarter through the carbonara and two slices into the pizza and I’m done.

I head to the ladies’ and reapply my lippy beside another woman, around my age, doing the same. She’s bobbing to music we can hear from upstairs. The lighting is flattering: movie-star lightbulbs surround the mirrors. Through them, we catch eyes, smile. To her, I’m just another person having a night out, perhaps with my husband, my girlfriend, my entire workforce. She would never guess how painful it is for me to open my bag, fish out this lipstick and paint it on, knowing that Jack won’t be smudging it with his beardy kisses during the taxi ride home.

‘Love your dress,’ she comments.

‘It’s just Zara,’ I say.

She checks herself over once more and leaves. I release a long sigh. Without the circus of Antonella dancing around me, I don’t feel so good any more. I grip the sink, look into my smoky eyes. I don’t want to be me. I want to be that other woman. She might have pain, too; but whatever it is, let’s trade. Please.

Back on the restaurant floor, the birthday boy from the large party is between the booths and tables, hugging some guests who are leaving. His arms are laden with gift bags, fancy tissue paper poking out. I’m in no hurry, so I hang back, lean against the booth. When his guests brush past, he turns around and realises he’s been blocking my way. His hand slaps his forehead and he mouths, ‘So sorry!’

‘Happy birthday!’ I shout over the noise.

‘Would you like some cake?’ he asks.

Before I can politely decline, he yells to someone called Eloise and she slides a slab of rainbow sponge onto a side plate for me. I say thanks and Eloise blows a kiss.

‘This might sound a little strange,’ I say, leaning closer to the birthday boy’s ear, ‘but can I borrow one of those candles, please?’

‘Of course!’ And on request, Eloise gets to it. She even holds up a lighter, to which I nod, and she brings the flame to life. How kind.