Bride without a Groom. Amy Lynch

Pam. This is the pits.’

      I gently move Jess off the couch so that I can stretch my legs. He makes a swipe for me but thankfully I had him de-clawed last year.

      ‘If he comes back from the conference and dumps me, I’ll have to change my status on Facebook from “In a relationship” to…’

      ‘Single…’ Pam finishes my sentence solemnly. ‘Do it now. Go on. Log on.’

      I realise I must do everything in my power to prevent this catastrophe.

      ‘There are more phases, Pam. Like Phase 6? Consuming the daily calories of a sumo wrestler.’

      ‘Defo!’

      Pam has had enough break-ups to earn a PhD in misery. For once, she’s an expert on something.

      ‘When Wayne dumped me, I became a bottomless pit. Honestly, I had more chins than a Chinese phone directory.’

      ‘Yeah, I remember.’

      She was a bit of a fattie after that train wreck.

      This weekend, I’ve fallen victim, through no fault of my own, to the lure of junk food. But I ask you. Who among us doesn’t cram Jammy Dodgers into their lonely mouths when the going gets tough? Let she who is without sin cast the first stone. The truth is that custard creams have a soothing quality.

      ‘What about Phase 7?’ suggests Pam.

      If only she’d applied herself this well at Trinners, she’d have an impressive arts degree like me.

      ‘Starvation.’

      She’s right. This post-break-up stage afflicts celebrities all the time. They become child-sized versions of their former selves, unable to lift their forks to consume their usual prune juice and lettuce diet. The drama turns them into lollipop people.

      ‘Mary-Kate or Ashley is exhibit A. And when Posh became even more of a skeleton during the whole Rebecca Loos episode!’ Pam is over-excited now.

      Unfortunately, I’ve yet to experience the starvation stage. Perhaps it’ll come, I think optimistically, reaching for the cheddar cheese Kettle Chips.

      ‘Phase 8. Drinking like Charlie Sheen,’ giggles Pam.

      ‘Well, we did that on Friday night, eh?’

      I’m cringing. If Pam could see the large glass of wine in my trembling hand she might suspect that I’m some booze-soaked lush like Britney, although she’s far more messed up than me. At least I haven’t shaved my hair. Anyway, I’ve had no choice but to replace the dream that was so harshly snatched from me with copious amounts of alcohol and carbohydrates. It’s out of my hands.

      ‘Oh, Phase 9. A woman scorned. Imagine if you slashed his tyres! Or if you ripped up all of his suits! Or sold his Jag on eBay! That would be hilarious!’

      Luckily for Barry, I love him too much to do that. Besides, he hasn’t dumped me yet. There is still a sliver of hope.

      ‘We should write to that professor guy, say that we’ve created a whole, like, new theory.’

      I laugh at her ridiculous suggestion. Then again, maybe we’ll get some sort of honorary doctorate like celebrities do. You know, for our humanitarian effort? Or a Nobel Peace Prize. Possibly both. I close my eyes. I’m dressed in a pink Chanel trouser suit. ‘Dr Rebecca Browne, PhD, MBE,’ the Queen knights me, just like Sir Elton John!

      Pam is talking about her recent date. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying. Really, I am. I catch the words ‘blind date’ and ‘never again’. Then there’s something about trying to escape from a moving car, but she’s very dramatic so you should take what she says with a vat of salt. By the end of her monologue, she has turned full circle and is considering giving the creep a second chance.

      ‘Maybe Barry will give me a second chance. Maybe I should lay off the whole wedding pressure,’ I craftily steer her back to the most important topic of the day.

      ‘Look. The relationship is dead in the water, Becks. Maybe you should trawl the water for some new fish?’

      I don’t find Pam in the least bit philosophical. She knows I don’t like fish, they’re too fishy. Also, I’m not great on boats.

      ‘Come speed dating with me tonight! You’ll love it!’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know, Pam. I mean, Barry’s no Johnny Depp, but he’s attractive in an overweight Richard Gere kind of way. I couldn’t bear to break up with him.’

      Pam says that she won’t take no for an answer and that she’s on her way over with the speed-dating tickets right now.

      ‘I can’t be single, Jess,’ I deliberate as the cat purrs softly on my lap. He’s a good listener and doesn’t interrupt, but hasn’t got much to offer in the way of guidance. ‘It isn’t my destiny!’

      I don’t know how Pam handles all of those speed dates and blind dates, and then picks herself up when it all goes horribly wrong. I mean, imagine! The stench of aftershave and sweat and desperation. Trying to summarise my entire life story into the allocated three minutes before the bell rings. Impossible!

      And just think how cringey online dating would be! I don’t even know the language. GSH and WLTM? Not a clue! And I’d have to do up one of those mortifying profiles and everything. Pam told me that they expect snazzy pictures and quippy descriptions. ‘If you like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain’ is a bit cheesy, although I do enjoy a good cocktail, it must be said.

      Then of course there’s the Lonely Hearts columns. Look, if I absolutely had to, my advert would look like this.

      WANTED: 6’5 hunk, uncanny resemblance to Patrick Swayze. Available for wedding fairs and cake tasting. Good Sense of Humour, ridiculously wealthy, enjoys Dirty Dancing (the movie and the actual dancing), chocolate and shopping. Contact me for endless celebrity gossip and copious amounts of wine.