Everyone else had gone. Harris remained in his office. I was alone in yours. It spooked me, being in there. The feeling was heightened by the heavy rain. Outside was dark, oppressive. A humongous black cloud hung over West London, like the spaceship in Independence Day. The precursor to an inevitable storm. And storms terrified me.

When little, I’d climb into bed with Mum. She’d tell me God was angry at me for some act of childhood I’d committed that day. I’d cling to her, silently praying for His forgiveness. Not stopping until He’d given it.

Except that last time.

It was different that time.

While shredding documents, I noticed you’d left your jacket behind. It was hanging on the back of the door. Expensive. Soft, muted linen. I wanted to touch it. My eyes fell onto the pockets. More shredding. As the noise drilled, I found myself walking across the room. My fingers gently running down the crinkled cotton. I lifted it to my face. Only for a second. Lemons again. My palm traced its pocket. There was something in there. I craved information about you. I wasn’t going to look. That would have been wrong. My fingertips stroked the top of the opening. Moved slightly inside. Then an almighty thunderclap shook through me. I stepped away from the door. Looked up, apologized to God and returned to the paperwork.

It was almost eight by the time we left. As Harris locked up, I attempted to open a brolly that had been resting in the corner of the stationery cupboard since I started working there. I waited for the offer of a lift. At least to the station. It never came. Because he was a wanker.

We said our goodbyes and walked in opposite directions.

The brolly was about as useful as a child’s skirt on a stick. Dipped at the front, not only did it fail to prevent me from getting wet, it created a guttering effect that directed the water straight into my face. However, a few seconds into the battle, I heard Harris calling. I stopped and turned. There was no way he’d really let me walk in this, and I was overcome with guilt at always thinking he was a wanker.

‘Don’t be late tomorrow – we’ve got a lot of stuff to get through.’

Heading towards the Tube, I tried to ignore the deafening thunder and electric sky. The streets were empty. Practically post-apocalyptic. It wasn’t just the storm. A girl had been attacked nearby a couple of weeks prior and my imagination was in overdrive.

Too nervous to contemplate the cemetery cut-through, I took the longer route to Kensington High Street. Desperate for civilization, I picked up speed, but it was still a ten-minute walk away.