The screen froze and a name flashed up as her phone rang: her personal bank manager. He’d been trying her for weeks. When it stopped, she deleted the notification and idled into her messages. She barely registered the lack of communication from Nina and Alice. They must be pissed off with her after the weekend and disappearing like that. Who could blame them? It was better, really, she couldn’t face them. She couldn’t face anyone. She thought only of Paul. His kind eyes, his musky scent, the way he wore a suit really well, even the trousers looking sexy, snug around his bum. It’s very difficult to look sexy in suit trousers, she thought to herself, and then shuddered, her eyes glossed with tears. She wiped them away and squared her shoulders.

She put the contents of the fridge in a tote bag and went outside, climbing into her car. Her little red sports car. A classic Jag. Her father would have loved it. She wished he could have seen it. It was cool outside, but the sun had warmed the leather seats through the glass. There was no point in putting the key in the ignition. No point turning it. She hadn’t been able to put petrol in the car for the last three months. She couldn’t afford to. But she liked to sit out here sometimes. To feel, briefly at least, normal. As if she’d just returned from the shops or from meeting friends. She closed her eyes, tried to recall a holiday she and Paul had taken, wine-touring around California in a car similar to this. She tried to recall the feeling of the sun on her face and the wind whipping her hair. She willed her body, her mind, to be someplace else. But neither would cooperate.

It’s empty, her brain whispered. Everything that represents your successful life – your car, your bank account, your house, your marriage, your friendships, your body – is empty.

She swallowed. Checked the time. She knew the routines of the street from the days she’d worked from home. Mrs Elvery from next door was due back from her daily Autumn Yoga class any minute.

What was she doing? The thought engulfed her, like poisonous venom shot into her veins. Her ears began to throb, a strobe effect, like standing too close to a speaker. What had her life become? She gazed at the beautiful thick-trunked blossom trees that lined her street. They were full and pink. The beauty of spring at its peak, which ordinarily would move her, make her feel optimistic and bright for the summer ahead, but she couldn’t feel anything. There was nothing bright ahead.

She wondered how quickly she could accelerate, how fast she would need to go, for the impact against a blossom tree to be sufficient. Not quick enough, she thought, thinking instead of the huge Range Rovers jammed with sunglass-wearing mums and prodigious offspring that often shot down their street. How fitting it would be to be railroaded out of here by one of them. Her car was small, could it be crushed by a large family car? Would she need to get on to the arterial road, wait for a truck or a lorry? Would it happen quickly? She turned the ignition. Just in case. Just in case there was enough petrol in there to propel her away from this life and into oblivion. Oblivion is where she wanted to be. Oblivion, right then, felt like the only option. But there was no spark of life; the car struggled, the engine died. There was nothing.