Sophie rings to see if I’m OK and if I want some company. I tell her I’m tired and going to have an early night. Emily rings to tell me she did a pregnancy test and it was negative again. She’s broken-hearted so I forget about my own troubles for half an hour and console my grieving sister.

I call my mother. I just need to hear her soothing voice, even if I know she will only want to talk about the latest teaching jobs she has found in the newspaper, or give me detailed updates on Matthew’s medical progress when I’m already up to speed with how my brother is doing. He is so close to fulfilling his dream of learning to walk again. Even the thought of him standing tall once more makes my eyes almost spill over. I think that would be the happiest day of my life if it ever comes to pass.

Jack messages me from Canada. He’s had a liquid lunch and is enjoying a tour of Montreal with some of the other delegates on the trip. Thinking of him enjoying himself makes me happy but also makes me miss him more, and when he says he’s met up with an visiting group of Irish doctors my mind races wondering if his ex, Ursula, is one of them. He mentioned bumping into her one day at one of his clinics and my stomach turned at the thought.

I ask him directly if she is there. He tells me she is. I go to the bathroom to be sick.

I need to get my life back on track. I need to see Tom and settle my racing mind, but I’m running out of ideas of how to get in touch without sounding like the raving lunatic I fear I’m becoming.

Later that night, I Google Tom’s record company and contemplate writing them an email. But when I type the address into my phone I realize I’ve no idea what to say. Hi there multi-national record company people, I’m one of Tom Farley’s thousand or so ex-girlfriends and I’d really like to get in touch? They’d probably file my name under ‘stalker types’ in their office, tell me to join the queue of super fans and block me from getting in touch again.

I look up his management and ring their office in London but chicken out when their answerphone asks me to leave a voicemail.

What the hell am I doing?

My fingers hover over Twitter and Facebook, knowing that the person on the other side of the social networks probably is someone employed to be, not the band, and certainly not Tom himself.