Something about the intensity of his outburst had moved her in a way she hadn’t felt for so long that she had almost forgotten the feelings she once had for him. Now she realised: she needed him to make her feel like she wasn’t already dead. That night, as he faced her, the rage pouring from him like venom, she had felt more alive in Tom’s presence than she had in years.

He barely met her eye over breakfast the following morning and when she leaned in to kiss him goodbye, he flinched.

‘About last night,’ she said, as she stood by the doorway looking back at him, but he shook his head dismissively.

‘Let’s just forget about last night.’

For the first couple of hours after he left the house, she managed to keep the inevitable thoughts at bay, but by the time she had finished scrubbing the bathroom and the kitchen until her fingers were raw, she had no choice but to face it: Tom was not having an affair.

The next morning she left early and headed for the tube, exiting at Charing Cross – not sure where she was heading but desperate to immerse herself in the crowds.

Drawing out her phone, she saw two missed calls from Ivan. Pushing through a knot of tourists gathered on the Strand, she stood with her back against a wall, the guilt swelling in her throat as she listened to his voicemail.

‘Gabriela, please call. We need to talk.’

There was a pause, as if he was going to say something else, but then he hung up.

She had needed the shield of the crowds, the anonymity they afforded her, the protection of countless strangers moving at a thousand different paces and directions, none of them asking anything of her. But now the pollution was like a fog, the sound of the traffic and the dustcart obliterating her thoughts so that no matter how fast she moved she couldn’t escape the feeling that the world was closing in on her. She was trapped.

‘Gabriela?’

When she turned, she saw Johnny standing in front of her, an apparition from a previous life. For a moment, out of context, she struggled to place him. It was only then that she realised, consciously, where she was. Looking up over his head, she saw the steps leading up to King Charles Street.

His expression changed when he saw her face.

‘I thought it was you. Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Gabriela said too quickly, her voice breathy as if she’d been running.

Closing her eyes, she tried to clear her head. She needed to recall what he might know of her situation, what lies he had been party to, the version of her that she needed to embody in this moment. But, of course, he knew nothing about her and probably cared even less. They had worked together for a while, that was all.