Scared. Scared and embarrassed. Shamed. Angry. Scared again. Emotions swirl through me, clashing and changing and smashing together as I drive home. My heart is still racing. My foot is shaky on the clutch. I have already stalled at two junctions. What will people think when they see my battered car drive along the streets? When they read ‘scum’, what conclusion will they draw about me?

I’m not scum. I’m a reporter doing my job. People want to read the news. They gobble up whatever we provide them. But people are never considered ‘scum’ for reading, are they?

I hear the loud honk of a car horn, glance up and realise I’ve cut someone off without even realising. I shake my head. I have to stay focused.

I’ll have to get the car to the garage first thing, I think. Get them to fix it as soon as possible. Get them to keep it quiet. I don’t want to report this to the police. If I do, there isn’t a hope in hell that Ryan won’t find out about it and he’ll be all over me with his ‘I told you so’ smugness. He might pull me from the story.

My head is throbbing now, my face blazing as I drive – too embarrassed to stop at the off-licence for a bottle of wine, or at the Chinese for a takeaway. I don’t want people seeing. I pray that the dimly lit parking space at the far corner of the communal car park is empty. I want to park where as few people as possible can see my car.

For a moment I wonder if I’m being followed. I look into the rear-view mirror and notice the same silver car has been behind me for at least the last five minutes. I’m starting to get really spooked, when it indicates and turns off to the left. Still, I don’t relax. I don’t relax even when I park in the mercifully free parking spot, or when I cover the broken window with a makeshift repair of a bin bag and duct tape.

I stand in the rain, shivering with a mixture of adrenaline and cold. I just want to be in my flat. Behind a locked door. With the safety chain on, the curtains pulled, the entire world locked outside.

I’m still jittery as I pour the dregs of a bottle of wine into my glass and gulp it down. I drop two slices of bread into the toaster for a quick dinner and flick the kettle on. I’m not used to feeling unsettled, even though I am used to people hurling abuse at me, or threatening me. I’ve even had one or two death threats in my time. It comes with the territory of journalism, I suppose. But this? This feels different.