He brought me breakfast in bed in an effort to endear himself further—a soft-boiled egg and toast soldiers—comfort food for the delicate and ailing. And I’m certainly both of those. I can’t help but remember that he was boiling eggs on the wretched morning when all this started and he walked away from me. How long ago does that seem? Jake’s memory isn’t, it appears, as razor-sharp as mine, as he clearly hasn’t formed any emotional attachment to this particular food. My ex-boyfriend plumped my pillows and smoothed my duvet. He put my magazines, the telephone and the television remote control where I could reach them so that I wouldn’t have to stretch too far. I nearly cried at his tenderness—which certainly isn’t too little, but it may be too late.

Then Jake, virtually as pale as I am, reluctantly left for an important interview he’d already arranged and I wished him well, because I really do. After eating my egg, I had to phone in to work to tell Monica my tale of woe and explain that I wouldn’t be gracing the offices of My Baby today or for the next few days. Of course, she was horrified by what had happened to me, but I suspect she was even more horrified that their impromptu ‘dates’ had glugged as much of their champagne as they could sink and then had cleared off into the night without so much as a thank you. A much more sophisticated form of mugging in my opinion.

I’m too shaky inside to do very much today, although my physical wounds are faring much better. I’ve got a bruise on my cheek that’s the colour of a squashed canary and a red-speckled graze on my head. My hand has returned to somewhere approaching normal size, and although it’s an attractive shade of mauve, there seems to be no permanent damage done. I guess the same can’t be said for my personal life. I snuggle down into the duvet and flick on the television. It’s a long time since I’ve had the luxury of watching daytime television, but having channel-hopped through the entire range of programming and finding nothing remotely interesting to hold my attention, I flick it off again and try some of the magazines instead.

I’m halfway through House Beautiful and learning how to use pastels to transform my home when the phone rings. I roll over, trying not to crush my hand in the process, and reach out for it. ‘Hello.’

‘Hi.’ The line is crackly, but the American voice at the end of it is unmistakable.

‘Dean?’ I sit up in bed and try to straighten my hair and my pyjamas.

‘Is this a good time?’ he says. ‘I thought I might catch you before you left for work.’

‘I’m not going into the office today.’