I walked back towards my own small, scruffy rented flat on the south side of the river, fighting my way through the throngs of commuters hurrying home to enjoy the early spring sunshine that seemed to taunt me. I stood on Tower Bridge and looked down into the murky brown depths of the Thames. It would be so easy to vault over the barrier and be swallowed up for ever by its muddy, swirling waters.

Who would miss me if I did jump? My mum, I supposed. But she was pathetic herself. She had made a bloody mess of her own life and screwed mine up in the process when she had my dad put away, accusing him of crimes too heinous to ever be spoken about. I didn’t have any friends who would care. Yes, there were colleagues who would whisper in shocked tones that they couldn’t believe someone as beautiful as me would have had reason to kill herself. ‘Just shows that you never really know what’s going on in someone’s life,’ I imagined them saying. But I had never made any real friends, as other women were always jealous of me and saw me as a threat. Marcus would be upset. But he would get over it and he would probably quickly employ a new PA that he could have some fun with.

I pulled out my phone and stared at it. A tiny part of me had hoped that Peter might have messaged, saying he had made a terrible mistake and begging me to forgive him. But my message inbox remained stubbornly empty. I swallowed down another sob and began to type.

Peter, please don’t do this to me. I am pregnant with your baby. I am standing on Tower Bridge and if I don’t hear from you within the next fifteen minutes, I plan to jump. The pain is unbearable. I can’t go on without you.

I pressed ‘send’ and waited. Almost immediately, the text bounced back. Message failed to send. I tried again. And again, stabbing at the screen in fury. He had changed his phone after his message ending things with me earlier. He had planned everything down to the minutest detail. I leaned over the rail and stared again at the water, willing myself to jump. To put an end to it all. But from deep inside me, a well of white-hot anger began to bubble up.

I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live and I wanted to have this baby. How dare Peter drive me to the point where I would consider suicide, meaning that our baby would die with me. Even though I had only known of the baby’s existence for a matter of hours, I already knew that I loved it like I had never loved anything before.

I put my hand to my stomach. ‘Fuck you, Peter. You are not getting rid of me that easily,’ I said aloud.

‘Good for you, girl,’ said a young woman striding past in a suit and trainers.