I feel as if the air is being squeezed out of my lungs. Each breath is starting to become harder than the last. I keep to the edges of the shopping centre, walk alongside the shop windows. I reach my hand out to steady myself on the cool glass, my palms sweaty. I can feel a cold sweat break out across my forehead. I pull off my coat and scarf, but I still feel much too warm.

I force one foot in front of the other and walk on until I’m passing Costa Coffee on the first floor, when I feel something, or someone, grip my arm. A firm, masculine grasp – the shock of it almost stops my heart. I pull and shrug, try to break free.

‘Let go!’ I say, but instead of a shout, a strangled yelp escapes my throat.

‘Ingrid! Ingrid, it’s me. Niall. I just wanted to say hello. See if you heard anything more about Liam after last night.’

I look up and see that the hand does indeed belong to Niall Heaney, whose expression is one of concern. I blink while I try to make sense of what is going on in my head and feel a surge of adrenaline run through my veins.

I see his lips move, but I can’t hear what he says over the din of my own heart thudding in my chest, my blood whooshing through my body. I try to focus on him, on his words. On his touch, softer now. On the smell of him, clean and fresh.

‘Jesus! Are you okay?’

I just about make out what he is saying, and I nod then shake my head, and without being able to stop myself, I burst into tears.

Niall leads me, very gently, by the hand to the coffee shop in Marks & Spencer, which provides just a little more privacy than Costa on the mall. He sits me down before going to order two large teas. He brings extra sugar, in case I need it ‘to steady my nerves’, and two scones with jam and cream.

‘Eat something,’ he says, ‘in case your blood sugars are a little low. This might help make you feel a bit better.’

I realise I’ve not eaten at all today so far and although my throat feels tight and my stomach unsettled, I am actually hungry.

I sip the tea, cut one of the scones in half, and slather it in cream and jam. I take the smallest of bites, trying to assess whether or not I’m safe to eat the full thing or if my stomach will reject it.

Niall doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. Not at this stage, anyway. He talks about the weather and how underrated a nice cup of tea is. He allows plenty of prolonged silences, for which I’m grateful, because I need to quiet what is going on in my head.