‘I’m sorry,’ I say to him too. I say it again as I leave his office, but it doesn’t seem to make anything better.

As I walk up the hill towards home and Charlie’s school, I suspect I am in shock. All I can think is: This happened on my watch. That’s the fact I can’t get away from. Because I didn’t do the checks – flat sixteen and other flats too – but still ticked them in the spreadsheet. Which means I am responsible. Because, last year, I wasn’t keeping things together.

The brisk walk seems to do me some good though; the early February cold gets the blood moving again in my veins. I cut across the little patch of scrubby grass that takes me onto Endymion Road, past pigeons shoving and pecking at bits of bread in the mud. I head along Elm Park to Charlie’s school, glad to be here on time, as I am every day.

I take my place alongside the other parents, women and men with faces I know. Martin, one of the dads, catches my eye – by accident, but I make sure to smile at him anyway, like I’m supposed to. I do try. Every time I’m here, I try to build bridges. Martin smiles back, a sort of automatic reflex, but then another parent touches him on the arm and he turns away, smiling at her instead, smiling with relief, no doubt, glad to detach himself from me.

They don’t know what’s happened to you today, I tell myself; they can’t see. Another mum brushes past me. ‘Hello,’ I say, because she and I used to be quite friendly and chat quite a bit at the gates. I’ve always done my best to keep to myself, keep as many people as I can at arm’s length, but I used to interact with the other parents in the playground at least; we used to exchange some pleasant conversation twice a day.