For once, the journey into town flashed by, when usually it seemed interminable. Surrounded by a floating sea of free newspapers, we rattled over the arches of Rotherhithe and Bermondsey, the sky a cobweb of intricate cloud above neat tower-blocks that flapped bright washing on plastic lines, and I realised with stomach-clenching clarity that I was actually frightened. Although I’d seen a few of the team while I recuperated at my dad’s, I had no idea how they were going to react to me in the office. I had no idea how much they knew, and that was what scared me most. I could still barely piece it all together myself. And, deeper down, I was frightened I’d lost my touch. Sitting at home alone for months hadn’t been exactly morale-boosting.

Of course, this morning the journey was so smooth that I ended up being early. I felt very tiny as I dawdled across Charing Cross footbridge in the freezing autumn air, the skyline hectic, huge cranes soaring above the spires of centuries past. I stopped at the corner café for coffee so strong it made my heart bump and they recognised me behind the counter, but I couldn’t manage conversation this morning. Finally I couldn’t drag it out any longer. I was so nervous that I almost couldn’t sign my own name at security.

But when I actually walked into the office, the initial reception I received was so nice, the girls so pleased to see me, the gossip to catch up with so comfortingly familiar, that I felt an enormous wash of relief; compounded by the fact that Charlie was apparently out all day. It’s not so bad, I told myself. Perhaps I can manage, after all.

I was just starting to relax a little, sorting things out in my tiny office, trying not to be overwhelmed by the thousands of emails and piles of paperwork that had accumulated since I’d last been here, when there was a tentative knock at my door.

‘Maggie?’

I looked up from the letter I’d been reading. It was the blond boy from the trauma show. Now that I looked at him again, it was funny – he reminded me of someone. Probably himself.

‘Oh, hi.’ I’d forgotten his bloody name again.

‘I thought you might like a coffee.’

He looked so eager I didn’t dare tell him I was already buzzing with caffeine. Very carefully, like it was a Faberge egg and not a chipped old mug declaring ‘You’re the best’ in hot-pink on one side, he placed it down beside the computer. Then he stood and looked at me.

‘So, how’s it going?’ I asked when I realised he wasn’t going to speak. ‘Are you settling in? Sometimes it can –’