I don’t tell her about my bad night’s sleep. I don’t want to get drawn into any conversation that might lead to awkward questions being asked.

‘Black, no sugar?’ she asks, and I nod again.

She turns on her heel to go to the kitchen. Tommy yells after her that he’ll have a cuppa if she’s making one and she asks him what his last slave died of. But her tone is light and I know she’ll come back with a tray of hot drinks for everyone.

I switch my computer on, listen to it whirring slowly to life. I look around my desk and something nips at me. I’m not a tidy freak by any means, but my desk looks more dishevelled than normal and the top drawer on my locker is slightly ajar. I start to wonder if someone has been going through my things, then chide myself for being paranoid.

Nonetheless, opening it, I try to assess if anything is missing or has been moved, but I can’t see any obvious signs. I look at my desk again, at the sheaves of paper I’ve left sitting around. At my pen pot. At a couple of old editions of The Chronicle, folded and waiting to be put in the recycling. I lift the papers, expecting to find my contacts book underneath it, but it isn’t there.

I lift all the other sheets of paper looking for it. I check my bag. And then double-check my top drawer. I start to feel a little on edge. My contacts book contains the phone numbers and email addresses of all the people I’ve had cause to interview or speak to over the course of my journalism career. It’s more reliable than any online equivalent. It won’t outdate or be vulnerable to hacking attempts. It’s my bible and I’d be lost without it.

‘Did anyone borrow my contacts book?’ I call out, resisting the urge to use the word ‘steal’. ‘Because it doesn’t appear to be on my desk.’

I’m met with silence. When I look up, I see a few people are shaking their heads, shrugging their shoulders. Trina walks back into the room, carrying a tray of mugs. I ask her, but she hasn’t seen it, either.

‘Did you look in your out tray?’

I nod, because I’ve looked everywhere. Someone is lying to me, but I’m not sure who. I want to stand up and ask again, louder this time maybe, but I doubt anyone would own up. So instead I just say to the room, as calmly as I can, ‘Perhaps if any of you find it, you could return it to my desk and we’ll say no more.’