I don’t know whether the next few days will allow me to get my head straight and prepare for what’s to come, or if it’ll make things worse, making my anxiety build and stopping me from sleeping at all.

Either way, I don’t have much choice. I have to go home and keep up appearances. For now. There’s nowhere else I can go. There’s nothing else I can do. And that’s why I hope to God the plan works.

46

Friday 21 February

When Tom called me last night to tell me he was about to board his flight, I almost had a full-blown anxiety attack. I’ve managed to keep a lid on things for the past few days. Thankfully he’s only been able to call me once a day while he’s been away, and I’ve been able to hold it together for the ten or fifteen minutes we had to speak.

I told him I was having to go through my contents insurance for a replacement phone as I didn’t have any money. Partially true. My old phone is off — and staying off — and hidden in the box of Christmas decorations in the loft. That gives me the best part of a year to get rid of it or work out how to transfer things I need off of it and onto a new device without it registering as being switched on.

Even though I knew he was going to be in the air for over eleven hours and wouldn’t be home until this morning, I still froze with fear every time I heard a car pass the house or someone making a noise outside. It’s crazy. I know I need to calm down. If I’m reacting like this to absolutely nothing, how am I going to be when Tom walks through that door? I need to keep a level head. If he spots any sort of weakness or insecurity, he’ll capitalise on it and take control of the situation.

I decide that preparedness is key. I’ve checked and double-checked the recording gizmos I bought. There are two: both ballpoint pens with hidden microphones, each of which can record up to twenty-four hours of audio. One’s on the side in the kitchen, and the other is in the living room. They even function as working pens, which I found both impressive and scary at the same time. I’ve set them both running already. Tom isn’t due to even land for another twenty minutes, but with twenty-four hours of recording space, I can afford to play it safe.

I use my laptop to track his flight, and it eventually lands a little ahead of schedule. Fifteen minutes later, Tom texts me to tell me he’s landed and is through passport control. I estimate it’ll probably take him a good half an hour to pick up his luggage and get back to his car, plus an hour to drive home. All of a sudden, that doesn’t seem very long at all.