I checked my phone. More emails. I skimmed the senders and subjects: there was an email from Polly but it was routine office stuff, no sign that De Chauncey or his press person had gone crying to Eddie. A couple of Twitter notifications, people favouriting things said by other people that happened to mention me. I hadn’t said anything worthwhile on Twitter for days. Just empty I’m-alive, Is-it-lunch-yet stuff. What would really set my feed alight would be to tweet something like: ‘Just spent day with @Oliver_Piercing. Major interview coming soon.’ But that might inspire other journalists to get in touch with Pierce, seeing that he had decided to ‘break his silence’, and he might talk to them. I could tweet a tease: ‘Spent amazing day with next interview subject. Rarely speaks with press. Going to be a big one.’ But that’s just annoying, isn’t it? Perhaps I could layer the tease with some ironic distance, serve it backhand: ‘I hate those teaser tweets, “secret meeting today, big story coming soon”, but today I really want to do one!’

But that just made me hate myself.

This is what I tweeted: ‘I am on a train. It is moving very slowly.’

Which was no more than the truth. I tried to bring up the @Oliver_Piercing feed, thinking – fearing – that Pierce might be coming out of his hole. But it was still blank, an error message.

Polly was in my notifications. She had favourited something I said about interviewing Bill Nighy back in early 2014. Why would she do that? Was it a deliberate message of some sort? Or just an accident, a slip of the finger? Either way, she was rooting about in the deep past of my timeline. Why? Looking for something? Evidence? She was unlikely to find anything. My online persona was a work of art. Modest, but without disingenuous self-deprecation. Always out doing interesting activities, but never boastful about them. Occasional wry jokes but no clowning or waggishness. Worldly without being jaded. Warm without being syrupy. Humane without being preachy. I liked to think that even my silences had a particular quality to them.

Not much was happening on Instagram. I took a photo of my copy of Murder Boards sitting on the stiff, worn fabric of the train seat next to mine, taking care to show its beard of bookmarks. That hit the right note. Literature. Work. Research. London. On the move somewhere. But not first class, oh no. Maybe the slightest hint at what I had been doing all day. Nothing that might contradict any later lies I might want to tell about missing the De Chauncey meeting. Perfect.

I had Tamesis notifications. Information for Fenchurch Street, as it had guessed in its spooky way that I was on a train heading there. A message from Kay.

Where are you?

I replied: Been out & about w Pierce. Heading back now.

Was she checking up on me as well?