But then there are calls like Pia’s, last night, and I think… Maybe I am doing something good. Even if I’m doing it for selfish reasons. Maybe I am making some sort of difference.

Better than I was when I called. I wonder where she is right now.

The Tube driver’s voice crackles suddenly through the speaker, making everyone look up, wincing, from their phones. I look up too, and as I do I catch eyes with two blokes sitting across from me. Their gazes scatter as soon as I notice them. They look at each other, lips bitten, eyebrows raised in amusement.

I feel a horrible churning in the pit of my stomach. I pick up a half-shredded Metro from the seat next to me, holding it slightly higher than necessary to mask my face, like a crap spy in a crap spy movie.

I can hear them whispering over the whirr of the train. This is pathetic. I’m being ridiculous. I’m being paranoid.

But they do fit the exact profile of the 0.0001 per cent of people in this city that might recognise me – i.e. men, maybe a couple of years younger than I am, with shoulder-length hair and wrist tattoos now half-hidden by freshly ironed office shirts. Indie kids all grown up.

The train hisses into Great Portland Street.

‘Sorry, mate. ’Scuse me?’

I focus hard on a ‘60-second interview’ with Paul Chuckle and try to block out the hot thudding in my ears.

‘Sorry? Mate?’

I lower the paper to see them both staring at me. ‘Yes?’

‘You’re not… Did you used to be in a band?’

My throat is dry suddenly. I attempt a smile. ‘Yeah.’

‘I knew it!’ The first bloke slaps his knee in delight. ‘I knew I recognised him!’ He nudges his mate. ‘Didn’t I say it was him?’

His mate just shrugs. ‘I’ve never even heard of him.’

Before everything happened, back when I was a different person, I used to daydream about what it would be like to get recognised in public by strangers. I used to pine for the attention – the furtive glances, spreading smiles, looks of embarrassed awe. Now I realise it just means people talking about you as if you weren’t there – like you’re a Madame Tussauds waxwork, or something.

The truth is: I am the absolute worst kind of ‘famous’ – recognisable only to a tiny handful of people, all of whom probably think I’m an utter knob.

The first bloke turns back to me with a broad grin. ‘I think I saw you lot at Reading in like… 2014?’