Just Haven't Met You Yet

by Cate Woods

Genres: General Fiction; Humor & Satire; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Percy James has everything a girl could want: a steady relationship and a truly lovely group of friends. Then she is approached by Eros Tech, an agency that matches soulmates using phone data. Percy has been identified as a match for one of Eros's super wealthy clients. The only problem is she already has a boyfriend… but what if this is destiny? Could you pass up a chance to meet your one true love?

Release date: July 15, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

GET YOUR GLASTO GLAM ON!

Festival fashion essentials for all budgets

With Coachella just around the corner it’s time to start planning your festival wardrobe. This summer we’ll be saying no-ho to boho: the hippest chicks at Lovebox and Latitude will be rocking a Bananarama-meets-Joan-of-Arc vibe. Think plaid shirts layered with boiled-wool sweats and lurex legwarmers over distressed suede booties. Add a pop of colour with neon nails and complete the look with faux dreadlocks, tanned legs and a swipe of frosted eyeshadow.

Ooh, I love that sequinned mini-kilt. Very Kate Moss at Glastonbury circa 2005, and just gorgeous with those slouchy boots and army jacket. It’s the sort of skirt you could wear all year round: with tights in the winter, flip-flops in the summer, even over a bikini if you were in, say, Monte Carlo, or Jersey Shore. Actually, when you think about it, a sequinned mini-kilt is one of those staples, like a perfectly cut white shirt or jeans, which every stylish woman needs in her wardrobe. Yes, it is a little on the pricey side, but it is an investment piece that I could pass on to my future daughter. If today goes as planned, I could buy it for myself as a congratulations present! Or as a commiserations present, although we really won’t go there . . .

Either way, I badly want this skirt. I need it. BUT:

a) I cannot afford it (it is £620).

b) I do not have the figure for it. Unlike the model, whose legs are like perfectly knobbly Twiglets, mine are Drumstick-shaped: the cone of my lower legs steadily widening towards the ice cream bulge of my upper thighs.

c) I have never been to Monte Carlo or indeed a festival (unless you count ‘Folk on the Pier 2011’ in Cromer) and, at the age of thirty-one, I’m unlikely to start going to them in the future.

Lost in unrequited skirt love, it takes me a moment to realise that the train is slowing down. I glance up from my magazine: thank God, it looks like we’re finally arriving in London . . . But where’s the platform?

‘Sorry, folks, it’s your guard here again, we’re just being held at another red signal outside Liverpool Street. I don’t know about you, but I had no idea there were so many signals between Norfolk and London! Ha ha! Anyway, just relax and I’m sure we’ll be on the move shortly.’

Relax? Relax? Over the past three and three-quarter hours we have been delayed by leaves on the line, sheep on the line, ‘excessive heat on the tracks outside Diss’ (it’s April) and the onboard buffet had to close due to an unspecified incident with the hot savouries. This journey has been nothing short of Railmageddon, and as disaster has piled onto catastrophe our guard has remained as cheery and upbeat as Dick Van Dyke high-kicking his way across the rooftops in Mary Poppins. Well, perhaps I could be a bit more Zen about the EXTREME BLOODY LATENESS of this train if this were just another day, Mr Van Dyke, but this is definitely not just another day. Not by a long stretch.

*

Have you ever had the feeling that someone else is living your life, and the one you’ve ended up with wasn’t meant for you at all? I, for instance, suspect that I was meant to have the life currently being lived by Gwyneth Paltrow, but at a critical moment a butterfly in the Amazon flapped its wings, my life took a radically different turn and instead of Hollywood I ended up in the east of England. Chaos Theory, I believe it’s called. I’m a little hazy on the details, but I’m sure it’s all on Wikipedia.

Take my name: Perseus Andromeda James. Surely that’s a name that belongs in the pages of Heat magazine, not on an Eagle Insurance employee name badge? (Although what the badge actually says is ‘Percy James’, which is what everyone except my dad calls me. He saw the film Clash of the Titans shortly before I was born and it had a major impact on him, so much so that not only did he name me after the film’s male hero, my middle name Andromeda is the girl Perseus rescues from a sea monster. I hope I won’t be spoiling Clash of the Titans for you if I tell you that Perseus and Andromeda end up getting married, so not only is my name a bit of a mouthful, it’s effectively like being called ‘Becks Posh’.)

Anyway, after spending my adult years feeling like I’m in some sort of flight-holding pattern, circling around the clouds enjoying the complimentary nuts and G&Ts, it finally looks like things are about to get interesting. Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen, make sure your tray table is stowed and your seat is in the upright position, because we’re beginning our descent into Excitement Airport, Big-Time City! I have a job interview that could – and I really don’t think I’m exaggerating here – change the entire course of my life. In terms of significant personal events, I imagine this is up there with marriage and motherhood. It is the Super Bowl, the Oscars and Christmas all rolled into one. In short: top-level shit. And I was meant to be at this game-changer of an interview eight – God, no – twelve minutes ago.

In need of distraction, I rummage in my bag for the stack of post I retrieved from the mat as I ran out the door this morning – although I’m not sure a pizza menu, mobile phone bill and one other envelope can really be described as a ‘stack’. I squash the menu into my empty coffee cup, return the bill to my bag unopened and turn my attention to the mystery envelope, which has ‘NOT A CIRCULAR’ stamped on the outside. With a slight frown, I tear it open and read its non-circular contents.

Dear Miss James,

I am writing to you on behalf of EROS Technologies, a company dedicated to the science of lifestyle enhancement.

Please forgive the unsolicited approach, but we have a very exciting opportunity that we wish to discuss with you at your earliest convenience.

Due to the highly personal nature of this matter I’m afraid I cannot provide any further information at this stage, but if you would like to call me on one of the numbers below at your convenience I will be happy to explain our unique proposition in detail.

Thank you very much for your time and I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Theresa Lefevre

Account Director

EROS Technologies

Hmmm. That is intriguing. ‘Lifestyle enhancement’ sounds like it might have something to do with cosmetic surgery: a special offer on boob jobs or Botox, perhaps. I read about this amazing new treatment the other day where this machine freezes your fat, zaps it with a laser and it just simply . . . melts away. It sounds incredible: you can literally remould your bum into whatever shape you want – be that the Knowles, the Middleton or something rather more retro, like the Vorderman – in a matter of minutes, as if it’s Play-Doh. Ooh, perhaps this company, EROS Technologies, are offering a free trial! That would definitely qualify as a ‘unique proposition’. I should phone this Theresa LeFevre right away to make sure I get my name down for the J. Lo . . . On second thoughts, the reception is notoriously bad on this train line and I don’t want to be cut off in the middle of hearing about the lasers. No, better to wait until I’m home. I fold up the letter and put it back in my bag.

The train still isn’t moving, so I apply another coat of mascara. I think I must be suffering from OCD – Obsessive Cosmetic Disorder – because whenever I’m feeling jittery I reach for my make-up bag. After this nightmare of a journey my eyelashes are so clumpy that rather than the ‘Billion Lashes’ promised by this mascara, it looks like I have about six.

Then at last the train jolts into motion again. Yes! I pull out my phone to send an email.

Dear Mia,

I’m so sorry for the delay but I’m just arriving at Liverpool Street and will be with you in about 20 minutes.

I hesitate – how to sign off? Mia is the MD of hyper-cool events company Saboteur Entertainment, and potentially my new boss. ‘Yours sincerely’ seems way too formal. ‘Kind regards’? No, too cosy. I plump for ‘Ciao’.

A couple of Tube stops and a short bus ride later I arrive in Dalston Kingsland. It’s not an area of London I know well, but I can tell it is extremely trendy by the number of young men with twirly moustaches of the sort favoured by olden-days strongmen. As I follow the directions provided by Mia to Saboteur’s offices I get a little thrill at the thought that this could soon be my morning commute: stopping at this charming vegan bakery for one of their ‘hemp croissants’, or picking up a cappuccino from this very cool coffee shop, outside which a young chap wearing a waistcoat and fob watch is smoking an actual pipe.

I so want this job. It’s not that I’m particularly miserable at Eagle Insurance – although after ten years in the same office I am certainly ready for a different challenge, or at least a different view – it’s just that I’ve always imagined I would end up as something a bit more exciting than PA to the CEO of Norfolk’s Premier Independent Insurance Provider. So the idea of working for a company that has offices in Ibiza and Los Angeles and has organised parties for the likes of Elton John, Google and Jennifer Lopez sounds like the answer to my decade-long prayers.

I nearly missed the job advert during my weekly trawl of the employment websites, because rather than ‘Office Manager’ the position was advertised as ‘work/play zone director’ (all lower case, a dead-cert signifier of coolness) and it was only because I recognised the name Saboteur Entertainment from the party pages of Hello! that I read the small print and discovered they were looking for someone ‘organised’ (me) and ‘media savvy’ (so me) to ‘manage their bustling London office’ (me me me!).

Of course, if I did get the job it would mean renting out my flat and moving to London, so I wouldn’t see Adam quite as much. In my darker moments I wonder if this is madness. After all, I am in possession of what we women are led to believe is the Holy Grail: a considerate, successful boyfriend with a Clooneyesque twinkle who knows his way around a tool kit. If he were a car, Adam would be a Volvo 4 x 4: rugged, reliable, not as flashy as a Range Rover, but just as capable off-road, if you get my drift! (I’m a Fiat Punto, possibly a Golf GTI convertible if I’ve spent ages on my make-up and am wearing boob-to-knee Spanx.) My mother likes to joke that if John Lewis sold son-in-laws they would be exactly like Adam, and she has made it clear that if I move to London he will dump me for someone less ‘flighty’ and I will have no one to blame but myself. But, as I said to Adam last night, I think it might actually be good for our relationship not to live in each other’s pockets the whole time – and we could still get together at weekends. I have this fantasy of waking up together in my bijou Thames-side apartment on a Saturday morning and strolling to Borough Market to buy artisanal breads and cheeses, then stopping off at the Tate Modern. Adam would love it, I’m sure, and it would do him good to get out of his comfort zone. As wonderful as he is, he can be a bit too . . . sensible. For instance, when I first told him about this job his immediate response was to ask about the benefits package. Not – ‘Wow, think of all the amazing parties we’ll be able to go to!’ No, Adam wanted to know about ‘flexible pension provision’ and ‘group health insurance’, which is obviously very prudent, but a bit of excitement wouldn’t have gone amiss. So this would be a fresh start for both of us – and even the strongest relationship can benefit from the occasional kick up the arse, right?

I follow the directions down a cobbled alleyway and I end up outside a long, single-storey warehouse with metal grilles at all the windows and clumps of weeds poking out of the gutters. To those of an unimaginative, suburban mindset it might look rather grim, but I bet Elton and J. Lo just adore its gritty urban vibe. With a surge of excitement I press the intercom button and as the door buzzes open I ruffle my hair, which is thick, strawberry-blondish and the only bit of me that looks half decent in its natural state, and enter with a smile that says: ‘Behold, your new work/play zone director!’

The reception area is empty except for a few hard-backed chairs and a front desk, behind which there is a girl wearing red-and-yellow stripy dungarees and a large spotty bow tie. Christ, is this what the cool kids are wearing these days? It’s probably vintage Issey Miyake, but the vibe is undeniably clown-like. She’s even wearing a big artificial flower on her lapel that looks exactly one of those ones that squirt – oh.

As water drips down my face, I rummage in my bag for a tissue. No tissue. Fab.

‘I’m here for the interview,’ I say, dabbing at my face with my pale-blue cashmere-mix scarf, leaving it streaked with several of my eight coats of mascara. ‘Percy James. I’m sorry I’m so late.’

The receptionist pulls out one of those comedy car horns and gives it a double honk. A moment later a man appears. He is reassuringly moustachioed, but the rest of his look pretty much screams Ringmaster.

‘Roll up, roll up!’ he says, with a dandyish tip of his top hat. ‘Are you here for the advanced clowning skills seminar?’

‘Um, is this Saboteur Entertainment?’

He looks disappointed. ‘This is the Hackney Circus Academy. You’ll want next door.’

Mia is utterly lovely about me being so late and very sweetly doesn’t ask why my hair is soaked. Perhaps it happens a lot. I was expecting Saboteur’s offices to be intimidating, but actually they’re very cosy: invitingly squishy sofas, vases of peonies dotted about the place and poster-sized photos from their past events decorating the pale-grey walls. And far from being some helmet-haired power bitch Mia seems completely normal, albeit extremely pretty and pixyish – like a platinum-blonde Björk with a killer manicure.

We sit in the meeting room with soya cappuccinos and Mia asks about my current job and responsibilities. She seems genuinely interested when I tell her about the new expenses system that I brought in at Eagle and laughs when I describe my attempts to persuade the more senior members of staff to start tweeting. I’m not one to blow my own trumpet – and I don’t want to tempt fate here – but I honestly can’t imagine how this interview could be going any better. In fact, half an hour in and I’m pretty sure I’ve nailed it.

‘If it’s okay, I’d like to ask you a few more general questions so I can get more of an idea what sort of person you are,’ says Mia. ‘We’re a small company, so it’s important we get the right fit, personality-wise. Is that okay?’

‘Fire away!’ I smile. I so want her to like me.

‘Great. Well, first of all, how do you like to spend your weekends?’

Now, the truth is that I usually spend the weekend hanging out with Adam, reading the papers, watching DVDs, perhaps having Sunday lunch at the pub. But I don’t think the truth is necessarily what’s important here. What I think Mia is more interested in is the essence of who I am – which is lucky, because my essence is way more exciting than the rest of me.

‘Well, I’m really into clubbing,’ I say. ‘I go whenever I can. I’ll kick things off on a Friday night at Fabric and then move on to the Ministry. Sometimes I don’t get home until Sunday evening!’

Mia seems surprised. Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have worn this Boden dress. It was called ‘Sassy Shift’ in the catalogue, but I really thought it could pass for Whistles.

‘So I’m guessing your ideal holiday would be somewhere like Ibiza?’

‘Yeah, well, of course the clubs are epic, but I’m a bit of a thrill-seeker, so when I get some time off I like to do something that gets me out of my comfort zone. I’m thinking about a high-altitude trek in Tibet next year.’

‘Blimey, you’re quite the action woman! Any other challenges on your list?’

‘Well, I’ve just started learning Krav Maga.’

Mia looks blank.

‘It’s an Israeli martial art,’ I say airily. ‘Lots of kicking and . . . chopping. And I’ve just bought a banjo.’ (The bullshit gods are clearly smiling on me here, because I read a feature on ‘hot new hobbies’ in Style magazine the other weekend and updated my CV accordingly.) ‘Oh, and I’m thinking about starting a pop-up restaurant in my flat. Something small and informal, you know? Probably Scandinavian-inspired. Herrings and . . . stuff. I might do a couple of nights for friends and then see where it leads.’

‘Wow,’ says Mia. ‘Do you ever find time to sleep?’

‘Rarely,’ I say, with a little shrug and a rueful smile. This is SO in the bag!

We chat for a bit longer and then Mia walks me back to the door. I am feeling invincible, like I imagine a footballer does after scoring a hat-trick. We pass a group of people chatting by a coffee machine and I have to stop myself high-fiving each of them in turn and lifting my dress over my head.

But when Mia turns to say goodbye her expression isn’t entirely reassuring.

‘Percy, you seem like a lovely girl, and your skills and experience are spot on for the role, but I think it’s only fair to let you know now that we won’t be taking your application any further.’

My stomach lurches. ‘Oh,’ I manage eventually. ‘Ah. I see.’

‘The thing is, we’re looking for someone quite . . . steady for this particular role. A safe pair of hands, you know? And what with all the clubbing and Krav Maga and kite-surfing (kite-surfing? Christ, of course, that was something else I put in my CV) you just seem too, well, far too cool for us. I actually think someone like you would find the position rather dull! I hope you understand.’

Inside I am screaming so loudly that I’m surprised Mia doesn’t hear. The truth is I that haven’t been inside a nightclub since I was twenty-three, and that was only because I thought it was Wagamamas. My last holiday was a cheese-tasting weekend in Somerset. There is barely enough room in my flat for a pop-up book, let alone a sodding restaurant! And – oh God – why did I sign that email Ciao?

But, of course, I say none of this. How could I, without sounding like a total nutter? So I just smile and thank Mia for her time, then walk back along the cobbles feeling like I have screwed up my last chance to make something of myself and have been sentenced to life in mediocrity, no chance of parole.

I make it back to Liverpool Street station as if on autopilot. Actually, that’s not quite true; I make it back to Dalston High Street as if on autopilot and then I realise that I am very, very hungry. Despair always gives me an appetite. I stop at the vegan bakery and buy a ‘sausage’ roll and a slice of ‘cheese’ cake, which I bolt down without even tasting (probably not a bad thing) and then, replete with rehydrated textured wheat protein, I get the bus back to Liverpool Street station where the Norwich train is perversely early. It’s as if Anglia Rail is taunting me: ‘You don’t belong in London . . . Get thee back to Norwich . . .’

The interview with Mia is playing in an endless loop in my head like a horror movie, with me as the dumb cheerleader who decides it would be a totally, like, awesome idea to investigate that spooky cabin in the woods. How could I have screwed things up so badly? I had the right qualifications, the interview was going brilliantly – and then at the very last minute I managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Honestly, it was a masterclass in fuckwittery. I know when I tell Adam what happened he’s sure to go on about how the job wasn’t right for me and that I’m on a solid career path at Eagle Insurance and a valued employee and blah blah blah, but he’ll be completely missing the point! This wasn’t just the chance of a new job, it was the chance – and at my age, probably the last I’ll get – of a new life.

I buy Grazia and two packets of Munchies and then board the train. I usually go for a rear-facing seat, as I once read that you’re more likely to survive a rail crash in that position, but right now, feeling pretty ambivalent about survival, I opt for front-facing. Fate, do your worst.

Moments later an old lady in a mackintosh, headscarf and tan tights stops at the seat opposite me, easing herself down with a gentle ‘oof’. Judging by her twinkly smile and laser-like eye contact she is clearly up for a chat. Usually I enjoy talking to senior citizens on the train (it brightens their day and you often learn something useful, like how to get stubborn stains off china teacups using denture cleaner), but I suddenly feel very tired, so I return her smile and then yawn and close my eyes in the international sign for Do Not Disturb.

‘Sorry, love, this is the Ipswich train, isn’t it?’

I open my eyes. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Oh good. It’s just they never make it very clear, do they?’

‘Don’t worry, this is definitely going through Ipswich.’ I close my eyes again and snuggle myself into a foetal sleeping position, just to make sure we’re both on the same page.

‘Goodness, isn’t it a lovely day for April? Summer’s come early this year! Have you been visiting London?’

‘I had a job interview,’ I say, sitting up. Resistance is clearly futile.

‘I’ve just been having lunch with my granddaughter Penny. She works at one of those big banks in the City – has her own office, you know, with a lovely view of St Paul’s Cathedral and all these people running around after her. She’s about your age, I should think. Ooh, and you’ll never guess: her secretary is a man!’

Oh cruel gods, why have you sent me a woman with an overachieving granddaughter? Why not a school dropout who works nights at the local grocery store?

‘The thing is, though,’ the old lady goes on, ‘and I wouldn’t say this to Penny, but I don’t actually think she’s very happy. She has this posh flat near Harrods and goes on these fancy holidays, but I think deep down all she really wants is a nice boyfriend and a few kiddies.’

Ah, now we’re talking. An overachieving, miserable granddaughter. Do go on, madam.

‘You know, sometimes I think you youngsters have got it all wrong. You’re so busy running around with your i-thingummyjigs and your man-secretaries that you forget about what’s really important. As I said to Penny, a wardrobe of designer shoes isn’t going to keep you warm at night!’ (Not strictly true: I imagine our Penny has enough Louboutins to fashion herself some sort of ‘shoe hut’ – but we digress.) ‘I met my dear late husband Albert when I was fifteen, married two years later and had my first baby the year after that, and every morning I woke up and felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I didn’t set foot on a plane until I was sixty-eight, but I don’t think my life has been any the less happy for it. When my youngest, Peter, started school, I . . .’

I wake with a jolt. The seat opposite me is empty. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but judging by the surrounding farmland and the amount of drool on my shoulder I’d say it was quite a while. What on earth happened to my neighbour? She said she wasn’t getting out until Ipswich. That’s weird. Hang on a sec, did I . . . did I dream her . . .? Was she – oh my God – was the old lady actually my subconscious, trying to tell me something . . .?

‘Shortbread finger, love?’ Ah, she’s back. It seems my subconscious had just nipped to the buffet car.

Penny’s grandma gets off at the next stop, wishing me luck with my job search and making me promise that I’ll drop round for tea if I’m ever in Ipswich. I’m quite sad to see her go: she distracted me from wallowing in self-pity/loathing/doubt. When the train is on the move again I stare gloomily out of the window, watching a tractor trundling across a field, when in that moment it suddenly hits me. Whoa. It’s as if someone has just changed the lighting inside my head: everything is still the same, but suddenly it all looks completely different. I’m not religious, but there, a few miles outside of Ipswich, I think I might have an actual epiphany.

It goes something like this: I realise that I have spent the past thirty-one years waiting for my life to start when all the time it has been quietly slipping by without me. And for the first time I see that if I keep waiting for that cool job or for slimmer ankles or for Nick Grimshaw to become my gay best friend, then another thirty-one years will have passed and I’ll wake up one morning with bad knees and Gardeners’ Question Time on the radio and discover that I have wasted my best years just waiting. My life is happening NOW, right this very minute – and I bloody well need to start living it!

Oh my God, this is amazing! I feel magnificently and exuberantly alive. Colours seem brighter, sounds more vivid – in fact, I’m almost surprised when I look around the carriage and everyone else appears to be carrying on as normal. Come on folks, life is wonderful! I feel like Scrooge at the end of A Christmas Carol, with the old lady as Tiny Tim or the Ghost of Christmas Past or whatever. I just know I will look back at this moment in ten years’ time (after I have written my bestselling self-help book Epiphany on the 14.32 to Norwich and moved to the Bahamas) and see it as the beginning of the rest of my life.

Right, things are going to change – starting from now. No more ‘putting things out to the universe’ and hoping they will happen. No more comparing my perfectly decent body to those of assorted bikini-wearing Kardashians on the Daily Mail website (and definitely no more reading the comments from angry fat blokes at the end of the article saying things like: ‘Females, take note – this is what a real woman looks like’). No more wishing that I had Kate Moss’s friends and wardrobe – or imagining life would be way better if I had either. I’ve been so busy searching for happiness that I didn’t realise it has been right under my nose the whole time!

In a rush of excitement, I take out a pen and my diary from my handbag and write ‘Gratitude List’ at the top of a blank page (I read about this in Cosmopolitan the other day, and it sounds like just the thing to mark my epiphany). I write the following:

Adam. I can’t believe I was nitpicking about how sensible he is. The man is a bloody god! It suddenly feels vitally important that I tell him how much he means to me. I pull out my phone and send a text.

Dinner tonight 8pm at the Library on me? I love you so much (ps I didn’t get the job but the benefit package was crap anyway) x

Almost instantly a text appears, but it is not from Adam, it is from my friend Jaye. Beautiful, screwed-up Jaye, who up until six months ago led the very definition of a charmed life. I put my epiphany on hold for a moment to read her text.

How did the interview go babe? Bikram at 5? xoxox

Ah, this is not good. Firstly because I hate Bikram yoga (although perhaps it will be more enjoyable post-enlightenment) and secondly because if Jaye is back on the Bikram it means she’s had A Bad Day.

I used to wonder who bought all the size six clothes in Topshop, but now I know that it is women whose arsehole husbands have dumped them for a Texan bikini model with 30G implants and a vaginoplasty. I know – total cliché, right? Quite literally, as it happens, as the model in question is called Cliché Corvette.

Jaye and I met aged nine at an afterschool drama group. Before meeting her I’d never given much thought to the concept of attractiveness – my friends and I had faces, and I generally liked all of them – but here was a girl who was Disney’s Cinderella made flesh. It was the first time I realised that in life there is a definite pecking order, looks-wise, and I was nowhere near the top of it. Nevertheless, having bonded over a shared love of Take That and guinea pigs, Jaye and I became inseparable until the age of seventeen when she landed a role on a kids’ TV show, alongside a young actor named Stewie Patterson. Anyway, Jaye and Stewie fell madly in love, got married in an Irish castle and then waltzed off to Hollywood. For those of us left behind in Norwich, Jaye shone like a beacon of success and glamour, brightening up our humdrum existence with tales of ketamine-snorting A-listers and twenty-something starlets getting facelifts. But while Jaye struggled to find work in LA, Stewie landed the role of dashing English brain surgeon Dr Charles Forsyth on the top daytime soap Too Much Too Young, and as America’s womenfolk fell for Dr Forsyth, so Dr Forsyth fell for America’s womenfolk – well, for Cliché Corvette. Six months ago Jaye learnt about their affair via some pap pics in US Weekly, packed up her things and fled back to her parents’ house in Norwich, and here we are today: Bikram binges, gluten-free everything and obsessive googling of ‘Stewie Patterson Cliché Corvette engagement rumours’.

Actually, I think, as the train pulls into Norwich, this could well be excellent timing: in my new enlightened state I might be able to give Jaye some perspective on her situation and help her to stop fixating on Stewie and focus instead on all the positive things in her life.

As I stroll back to my flat in the afternoon sunshine I notice as if for the first time what a wonderful city I live in. People make eye contact and smile;. . .