My phone was jammed between the arm of the sofa and the cushion. Plucking it out, I stared at it. Much unpleasantness might be stored up within. My absence had been agreed in advance, at least. Here I was, ‘working from home’. And no missed calls – that was good. But there would be consequences from my failure to meet De Chauncey. At best, another time would have to be arranged, something I could take to Eddie and Polly to show willing. At worst, De Chauncey and his people would be full of umbrage, there would be no later appointment, and Eddie and Polly already knew all about it. Yesterday I had been fairly sure that a strong Pierce interview would let me ride out those repercussions. Today I felt less sanguine. Deliberately defying Eddie’s express wishes might cancel out any credit accrued from a genuine Pierce scoop.

But it was still possible that I might just be able to make another time with De Chauncey and glide through the whole situation. I found a relaxing programme on one of the factual channels, a man in a windcheater learning how to make a coracle, and settled down. Eyes shut, I opened email.

It wasn’t so bad. A peck of nagging from Polly – a passive-aggressive ‘Hope it’s going well today!’, a sinister ‘Can’t wait to hear your ideas!’ and a quietly threatening ‘See you tomorrow!!’. A one-liner from Eddie: ‘How did it go with Alexander?’ For a moment I feared that it might be a trap, that he might know everything and was trying to tempt me into a barefaced lie. That wasn’t really his style, but it was possible. I didn’t answer either of them. I did, however, compose a genial email to De Chauncey’s PR, to see if time could be found later in the week. Nothing else of consequence. Office email successfully fielded. My glow of achievement gained lustre.

I moved on to other notifications, for Twitter, Instagram, Tamesis, Tumblr. My blood froze.

Tamesis was on, for a start. Generally I tried to disable it before a heavy session outside the flat. It wouldn’t reveal my location to people I know, that wasn’t how it worked. But it might, possibly, steer somebody – a workmate maybe – into the pub I was drinking in, and that was dangerous. It was too easy to imagine: Tamesis whispering in Polly’s ear, ‘Hey! Why not try the William Blake this lunchtime?’ and a gang of my colleagues finding me there, chewing my second or third pint on my own.

I had switched Tamesis on when I was with Pierce, and had left it on. And when I had got to Fenchurch Street, not knowing the area, I had asked it for the location of a quiet pub. I had never switched it off. And now it was full of messages and alerts. Hundreds of them.