As we waited for the emergency services to arrive, I must have felt every emotion under the sun. Anger at Tom for what he’d done. Panic at what would now happen. Relief at having the opportunity to tell the police everything.

They’ll be able to speak to Jess. She’s one of their own. I stay silent all the way to the police station, telling myself that over and over. I’ll let them book me in, get me a solicitor and then I’ll tell them everything. I’ll make sure they get hold of Jess and find out what Tom’s really like. It won’t just be my word against his. Not any more.

I always thought police stations would be a little more accommodating and comfortable than the ones on the TV. If anything, they’re worse. This one is cold, drab and depressing.

They’ve arrested me for attempted murder. Not that it matters in the slightest. While I’m here, I’m safe. I’m in the best possible hands, with people who can help me. All I need to do is make them aware that I’m the victim, not the criminal.

They process me at the custody desk, take my details, ask me if I’ve drunk any alcohol or taken any drugs recently, then take my shoes and belt off me. As if I’m going to hang myself in my cell. Tempting, but no.

I’m scared. Of course I’m scared. I’m petrified. I’ve never been arrested in my life. I’d never even set foot inside a police station until Bideford. But now I’m in a cell of my own.

But there’s something else that overrides the fear. It’s the knowledge that this will soon be over. That I can tell them everything. They’re arranging a solicitor for me, and as soon as I get to speak to him I’ll hopefully find out if there’s something more that can be done. A restraining order, perhaps. Either way, I need to get this all over and done with. I need to move on with my life.

I don’t know how long I’m in my cell, but eventually the door opens and a police officer tells me my solicitor is here and wants to speak with me.

I’m taken through into a small room that’s more like a stationery cupboard masquerading as a meeting room, and I sit down with the man who introduces himself as Brian Conway. I tell him everything: that Tom deliberately jumped out in front of my car while I was trying to escape from him, that he’s a liar and a conman who’s been trying to systematically destroy my life and that there’s a police officer in Cornwall who can back up absolutely everything I’m saying. He listens intently, but I get the feeling he thinks I’m some sort of mad woman who’s trying to dump an insane story on him in an attempt to prove I’m not crazy.

He jots down a few notes, but I don’t think he’s convinced. He probably hears all sorts of excuses and sob stories, and I doubt very much if this is coming across as the most sensible one. He tells me he recommends giving the police a pre-prepared statement, but I tell him no — I want to tell them everything myself. I don’t want to come across as the sort of person who’s going to say ‘no comment’ to everything. I want to cooperate with them, let them see it’s actually me who’s the victim, not Tom.