I glance back, quickly, over my shoulder, but I can’t make out anyone I recognize in the scrum of bodies. I push on, hurrying forwards, a sudden panicky need to get inside, through the familiar doors and up the familiar staircase to my office, where everything is organized and predictable and safe. I glance backwards again, just a glimpse over my shoulder, the scene blurred by the pricks of light in my eyes, but I’m sure of it this time; a figure is burrowing their way through the crowd, following me, trying to catch up with me. I try to hurry on even faster, but there are people in my way, like a sheer wall in front of me. ‘Please,’ I blurt out, ‘let me through, please,’ as I try to push through, my hands like claws, the panic climbing in my chest; but no one notices, no one hears me, and then I feel a hand on my arm.

‘Jennifer!’ She lets go of me. ‘I’m so glad I caught you. I saw you from the bus. I jumped off. You were walking so fast, though, I had to run to catch up.’

It’s Freya. I can feel myself staring at her.

I don’t know what to say. I try to smooth back my hair, push the windblown strands into their bun, but they just seem to keep flying loose.

‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Can I buy you a quick coffee?’ We are standing on the street, right outside the Starbucks that’s tucked in next to the Tube station. People are bumping past us on all sides.

‘I have to get back to work,’ I say.

‘I know, but just quickly. You have a few minutes, don’t you?’

I look up at the clock on Brixton Town Hall. Still only a quarter to eleven. It’s true, I do. And I don’t want to be rude or let her see how flustered I am. I don’t want to give her a reason to think I’m not okay.

‘I could …’

‘Come on then,’ she says. ‘We’ll be really quick.’ And before I can say anything else, she is already pushing her way inside, squeezing past the crush of people coming out. I follow her, not knowing what else to do.

‘What do you want?’ says Freya. ‘My treat.’ I wonder if she’ll try to buy me another cupcake.

‘A black coffee,’ I say. Then louder, because the coffee machine is making such a racket, ‘A black coffee. No sugar, no milk.’

There’s a tiny gap in the morning rush and we find ourselves pressed right up against the counter. The cakes and biscuits look huge and the smell of doughnuts turns my stomach. I don’t want to be here, I want to get away, but how can I just leave without making Freya worry? Without her following me with even more concern?