‘I don’t care about my top,’ I hiss, indicating the cream-splattered £55 coffee table book sitting between us. ‘Look at that!’

Penny glares at it as if it had no business being there and rubs at it with a napkin. Although a delicate wipe would have sufficed, she rubs so hard, she takes the gloss off it. ‘Oh, God, I’m just making it worse,’ she mutters. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

‘We can’t just leave it!’

She jumps up from her seat and grabs at my arm. ‘What else are we going to do? Re-gloss it?’

‘Well, maybe we should offer to pay for—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she splutters. Come on.’

I’m not proud of the fact that we leg it from the café. I love this shop, and I’m grateful that it seems to be thriving when so many others are closing down. What if everyone came in here and spurted whipped cream about the place? Was the incident captured on CCTV?

Maybe I’m over-reacting, and no one will actually care about a ruined book. But it’s in my nature to worry and, much as I’d love to be blasé like Penny, I’m not built that way. I worry about upsetting people and causing offence – it’s ridiculous really. I worry about Spencer, even though he is a bona fide adult who can drive on the road and runs his own smelly little Skoda, filled with crisps packets, Coke cans and the remains of fast food (I always feel like I need a cover-all suit – like the kind asbestos-removal guys wear – whenever I get into it). And, of course, I fret about his diet and whether he’s getting enough nutrients.

I worry about Izzy too, about whether she is really okay about Andy and I splitting up, or is just putting on a brave front. I worry about my future, and whether I’ll be a PA at Flaxico until the end of time, and whether we really do have rats in the garden and, if so, will they find their way into the house and bite Izzy during the night?

‘Hurry up,’ Penny barks, glancing behind as I scuttle after her through the shop like some kind of lady-servant. Seconds later, we reach the exit. She breezes out first, and we speed-walk along the pedestrianised street until we’re safely around the corner.

She stops, catching her breath. It’s a warm, rather clammy afternoon and my hair is sticking to my forehead. ‘Well, that was unfortunate,’ she announces.

‘God, Penny,’ I exclaim. ‘You do realise we can never go in there again.’

‘Of course we can! No one saw us.’

‘Oh, no, we blended right in.’

She shakes her head and links her arm through mine as we make our way towards the subway. ‘You worry far too much.’

‘I know I do.’

‘But I’m really sorry about your top.’