‘I won’t.’ I put the phone onto loudspeaker and place it beside me. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘I can hear you.’

‘OK, let me try this.’

I repeat my previous movement, straining to roll over and then sort of falling out of the bed. By the time I’m on my knees again, gasping for breath, I know there’s no way I can make it to the door, not even by pulling myself across the floor.

‘Alex, you sound like you’re struggling.’ Emmanuel’s concerned voice comes through the speakerphone. ‘Please stop, and give me your address.’

Admitting defeat, I relay this information to her, then when she’s disconnected the call I put my head in my hands in despair. I no longer care whether I can get back into bed or not. After the high of the weekend, my life has just reached its lowest point yet.

By lunchtime, I’ve experienced the humiliation of a woman from my letting agent coming to my apartment to let my boss in, having to use a makeshift bedpan with Emmanuel’s help, and then being carted out to a waiting ambulance strapped to a wheelchair. I’m now lying on a hospital trolley in a cubicle of the A&E department of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham. Emmanuel has returned to work, but has promised to visit in the evening.

‘How are you doing, Alex?’ The nurse who’s been attending to me whips back the blue and white horizontally striped curtain and enters my cubicle.

‘OK, I guess.’ I fiddle with my phone absently.

‘We’re arranging a bed in neurology for you, and you’ll be taken for an MRI scan soon.’ She prods my ear with a digital thermometer, then reads the output on the device. ‘You’re still running a fever. I’ll give you something shortly to bring your temperature down.’

‘Sure.’

She stops and looks at me. ‘I know you came in with your manager, but is there anyone else I can contact for you? Parents? Husband-slash-partner? Any other family members?’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

‘You shouldn’t be coping with this alone.’

‘I’m fine. Honestly.’

‘All right then. I’ll leave you in peace.’

She disappears out of the cubicle and I start scrolling absently through Twitter. As I do so, a banner appears at the top of the screen signalling a text message from Matt. I immediately click it open.

Morning, gorgeous. What are you up to tonight? I know I’ll see you tomorrow for band rehearsals, but I’m keen to have you all to myself for an evening. How about I come over with some healthy takeaway food? x

Ordinarily this message would have made my stomach perform a double somersault and fill with happy, fluttery butterflies. Today all I feel is empty loss as my decision to conceal my illness finally catches up with me. The stark realisation that I’ve been kidding myself is like a sharp kick to the guts. Matt, the band, my big career. I can’t sustain any of it. It was all just a fantasy. Emmanuel says my job is safe, but for how long? How can they keep me on if I suffer two relapses a year? And the leadership programme – there’s no question; I can’t continue with that.