‘I do, Joseph, honestly. I’ve just had a bit of a morning of it. An early start, you know, and this –’ I wobbled my crutch around, ‘this doesn’t help my brainpower. How …’ I tried to focus on him properly, ‘how are you?’

He relented, his smile lighting up his smooth round face. I relaxed a little.

‘I’m well, thanks. Oh, and thank you for the reference.’

What was he on about now? ‘You’re welcome,’ I murmured.

‘So, I’m back for a bit. Charlie gave me a job. Well, I’m on a trial anyway. A three-month trial.’

‘Great,’ I smiled back, trying to mask my insincerity. Please God, get me out of here.

The door swung open and Charlie swaggered in, his arm round a crowing Renee. I was stuck between a rock and a hard bitch. Oh dear.

‘Fantastic, darling. Fantastic bloody show. Leonora was absolutely worth her weight in the proverbial, and Fay’s tears. God!’ Charlie caught sight of me attempting to dissolve into the sofa. ‘All right, Maggie, darling. Feeling better? I told you this show would help heal the wounds for good.’

By the time I remembered him again, the boy had gone.

An apologetic Sally wanted me to go for a quick drink with her, but by now I’d realised that if I didn’t sober up I’d be throwing up. I needed to eat and lie down; more importantly, I wanted to get away from Charlie – fast. I’d see them all soon, I promised Sally. I’d be back at work in a week or two (or more like four, if I could help it).

Out on the busy street, I breathed a sigh of relief and lit a cigarette. The lunchtime rush had begun on Grays Inn Road, and I perched on top of the imposing studio stairs to wait for my cab. November’s chill was truly in the air, and I huddled down into my coat, shivering despite its warmth. The skeletal leaves from the ornamental trees in the studio’s planters skittered round my feet. Chip wrappers cartwheeled in the gutter. A Number 45 crawled past, spewing noxious fumes out below an advert for Renee’s memoirs, her smug face resplendent on its bright red rear, as big as a potting shed. I shuddered. I watched a very old man pull his tartan shopping-trolley up the road, his head wrinkled and jutting like an ancient tortoise’s. With a great lurch, I thought of Gar. I’d neglected her since the accident.

My cab pulled up and beeped. Hauling myself to my feet at the top of the stairs, an arm snaked through mine suddenly, sending me off balance. Panic coursed through my veins as the concrete rushed up towards me. Just in time I righted myself.

‘I’m so glad I caught you.’