Over the next couple of days, I only have phone catch-ups with Wale. My old feelings for him are resurfacing and, if I’m not careful, things could get messy. I need some alone time, to shake off whatever this is. More importantly, I need some time to write. I have a little under three weeks before I have to submit Love Drive to Mayee, and the thought of my looming deadline is making my chest tight. All I want to do is curl up in bed and hide away from the world.

Sticking to my plan, I work on Wale’s memoir during the day, shifting my focus to Love Drive in the evening. I glance at the time. Two hours and only 200 words! I groan. I’ve been struggling to enter flow state, writing and rewriting sentences over and over and over again. I’m mentally and physically exhausted. I’m absolutely shattered.

I’m trying to get the letter ‘P’ to work with, when my phone flashes.

I sigh.

It’s my parents.

I pick up their video call and tell them that I am busy.

‘We just have a quick question,’ Mum says briskly.

Ten minutes later, I’m still on the call. ‘I dunno, pick whatever,’ I say, glancing at the time again.

They have been going back and forth on which celebration cake they should get for Rosemary, only for them to return to their original choice.

‘Bad day at work?’ Dad says.

I go quiet.

I’ve been so preoccupied with writing and trying to understand my confusing feelings for Wale that I totally forgot that I haven’t yet shared my news with my parents.

‘I’ve got a new job!’ I blurt out.

I watch as the news settles on their faces.

‘Darling, congratulations!’ Mum cries. ‘Why didn’t you mention it earlier? And we have been sitting here nattering about cake.’

Dad beams. ‘That’s great news, Temi. What’s the role? What’s the company?’

I feed off their excitement by telling them about how my agent put me forward for the gig and that I didn’t even need to apply.

‘Oh, so it’s another ghostwriting job.’ Mum sounds slightly concerned.

‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’m in a much better place now. Plus, I’m freelancing, so I’m essentially my own boss.’

Dad smirks. ‘So, aren’t you going to tell us who it is?’

‘Huh?’ I say automatically.

‘Your client,’ Mum tuts. ‘The one you’re writing for.’

I freeze. I can’t tell them I’m writing for my ex, let alone a former Villa member. Dad thinks reality shows are trash.

‘It’s for a young TV star,’ I say, playing it safe. Yes, keep it nice and broad.

Mum nudges Dad. ‘She thinks we won’t know who it is. Try us!’

They begin to throw out names: Steve Bartlett, Rochelle Humes.

‘I know! I know! Stormzy!’ Mum says.

‘Stormzy is a music artiste, not a TV star,’ I tell Mum, who’s looking all too pleased with herself. I decide to put a pin in it. ‘And I can’t say who it is for confidentiality reasons.’ This is true. ‘Anyway, I should get back to writing.’

Mum and Dad wish me luck.