‘It’s a government initiative that we’re backing. We’re encouraging people to take the stairs rather than the lifts to improve cardiovascular health.’ Vivien looked at her blankly, awaiting further explanation. ‘And we have someone here telling us all about it.’

‘Out of the question,’ she replied plainly, turning back to me. The girl hovered in the doorway for a few moments, then took her cue to leave. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the guff they make us do here. I am convinced it’s what finally drove dear old Malcolm away. Our best designer.’

‘Oh no, has he gone for good?’

‘Yes, he’s had a breakdown. He’s sold his house to go live in Belgium. But I’ve always thought Belgium would be a rather splendid place to go mad in, so good for him.’ Another phrase I knew I would adopt as my own. One day, someone would tell me about Belgium and I would say confidently: a splendid place to go mad in.

‘So. The Tiny Kitchen. The campaign is coming together nicely, we’re sending all the information to you in an email this week.’

‘Brilliant,’ I said.

‘And Taste continues to sell, your numbers were up last month, which is fantastic.’

‘I just really hope this book isn’t a disappointment for anyone who liked Taste.’

‘No, no,’ she said, flapping her hand dismissively. ‘It’s your voice, which is exactly the same voice from the first book, tackling a very common issue for a lot of households, which is entertaining and cooking and storing food with no space. It’s a winner.’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

‘I know so,’ she said, nodding reassuringly. ‘Now. The not-so-fun news.’

‘Go on.’

‘Book three. I read the proposal over the weekend.’

‘You didn’t like it.’

‘I’m afraid to say I didn’t.’

I was grateful for Vivien’s straightforwardness. I couldn’t bear the pandering language of feedback in publishing and journalism. It had taken me years to work out that when a magazine editor says ‘lots to love here’ they nearly always meant ‘very little we can do with this’. Mine and Vivien’s working relationship was efficient, thanks to our honesty.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘Boring. Unengaging.’

‘Okay.’

‘And just rather …’ She searched for the right word. ‘Fussy. Who wants to check all their ingredients against a calendar? It’s a hobby of someone with too much time or money on their hands.’

‘I was thinking of giving it more of a home-grown angle. How to source all your food from your country by keeping in sync with the seasons.’

‘Bit UKIP.’

‘Is it?’

She flared her nostrils in disdain. ‘Bit.’

‘So seasonal is out?’

‘I think so. I think we need to go back to the start and think of a new theme.’

I was disappointed – the research and writing of the proposal had taken over a month. I took out my notebook to write meaningless words on that I’d never return to, as a gesture of enthusiasm.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Well, quite unhelpfully, I don’t have anything specific in mind yet. I just know your readers want something personal. Something passionate.’

‘I don’t know if I can do much more public catharsis after writing about my life in Taste, Viv.’

‘No, no more ghastly catharsis. We just want something human.’

‘Human. Okay.’

‘Have a think. Have some conversations. Live some life, then come back to me.’

Live some life, I wrote down at the top of the page and underlined it twice.

‘I will.’

‘What else are you working on at the moment?’

‘I’m still writing my weekly column, I’ve just finished a big piece on flexitarianism. I’m now working on one about UK-produced wines. Oh, and I’ve just signed another soulless brand partnership deal to pay the mortgage.’

‘How soulless are we talking?’

‘Condensed milk,’ I replied repentantly.

‘Oof.’

‘So now I have to find ten genuinely delicious and ingenious ways of using condensed milk.’

‘Key lime pie,’ she said. ‘With many more limes than you think. They’ll lick the plates. And no-churn ice cream.’

‘You have the answer to everything.’

‘Right. To the actual business: how did the online dating venture go? I’ve been desperate to know.’

‘It went well! I’ve ended up with a sort-of boyfriend from my first ever date.’

‘You’re joking?’ she said.

‘I think I have to accept I’m terrible at casual dating.’

‘Perhaps you are. I always rather liked sleeping around. It was all a lot of harmless fun as far as I can remember, apart from the odd bit of disease, but that was no bother really.’

‘I don’t think I’m built for it, sadly. I’ve tried.’

‘Well, lucky you’ve found someone then. What’s he like?’

‘He’s an accountant. He’s very outdoorsy.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Tall, broad, sandy-blond hair. A bit like a caveman-surfer in a suit.’

‘Oh, heaven,’ she said.

‘I was going to ask your advice, actually.’

‘Go on,’ she said, looking pleased.

‘I’m about to have dinner with my ex –’

‘That charming little bear of a man I met?’

‘Yes. You know we’re still very close?’ She nodded. ‘Do you think I should tell him I’m seeing someone? We always said we’d be honest about it, but I don’t know if that seems sort of … presumptuous, to announce it to him, like he’d be bothered.’

She leant back and ran her hands through her sexy sheepdog hair ponderously, as if summoning the part of her brain that dispensed love and life advice on tap.

‘Yes,’ she said after a few moments. ‘You should tell him.’

‘I thought I should.’

‘But be very sensitive. Men always have to keep a low flame burning for every ex. It will be flickering in there for him, even if he doesn’t know it is. Whereas women always have to extinguish it.’

I waited for Joe outside the cinema. He was nearly fifteen minutes late. We were seeing a late-afternoon screening of The Appaloosa, starring Marlon Brando. Westerns had always been our mutual obsession, and we had no one else who would watch them with us other than each other. We both liked the simplicity of good guys or bad guys and the lack of moral ambiguity – it felt like comfort food. The Appaloosa, about a man stealing another man’s horse because it’s sexy, was a particular favourite. You can replace the word ‘horse’ with ‘gold’, ‘gun’ or ‘wife’ and you’ve got the plot for every single Western ever made.

We had managed to carry almost all of our relationship into our friendship post break-up. We still watched Westerns together, we still spoke to each other first when something went disastrously wrong at work, we still bickered about the correct details of a shared memory – our dynamic was unchanged other than the fact we didn’t have sex. And the last part of our romantic relationship was so sexless, it had acted as a transitional period to prepare us for a platonic one.

In the long two-day sit-in in our flat that was our eventual break-up conversation, Joe and I did a full enquiry into where the sex went to. I don’t think it’s that we stopped finding each other attractive, I think we stopped seeing each other as gateways to a place of excitement or stimulation. We became each other’s portal to comfort, familiarity and security, and nothing else. For years, the person I wanted to have new experiences with, stay up with, discover things with, was Joe. Incrementally that changed, and he was no longer the person with whom I wanted to live life. He was the person I wanted to report back to as we ate Thai takeaway. I wanted him to be the post-match commentary, rather than the main event. I wanted him to be the photo frame, rather than the photo. And that was when we stopped having sex.

I saw Joe’s compact but bulky frame lumbering towards me in one of his lightweight shirt-jackets that I’ve always hated, and I was struck by how different he was to Max in every way possible. Max was confident and withholding with his enthusiasm, Joe was puppyish and keen to entertain. Max was serious, Joe would do or say anything to make people laugh. Joe was soft and round-cheeked, Max was solid and sculptural. Joe was as safe and comforting as a teddy, Max was leonine, dangerous and majestic. Joe looked like he was eagerly awaiting someone to make a joke about him around a pub table, Max looked like a leading man.

‘You’re late,’ I said as he arrived, out of breath.

‘I know,’ he said, giving me a clumsy hug. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What’s the excuse, come on, say it quickly before you can make one up.’

‘Don’t have one,’ he said, scratching his gingery-brown beard, always so flummoxed by his own inefficiency. ‘Faffing about this afternoon.’

‘Were you playing that football Xbox game thing?’

‘A bit, yeah.’

‘Does Lucy mind you being late for her?’

‘I’m never late for Lucy, Christ.’

‘So you’re only late for me?’

He looked at me with a patient smile as he removed what he called his ‘shacket’ and rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be needy,’ he said, self-consciously pulling his khaki T-shirt down over his round tummy.