‘Otherwise what?’ I stare him out defiantly as his gaze drops to the floor and he wrestles with his thoughts, clearly trying to stop his temper from exploding again.

After a few moments, he looks me straight in the eye.

‘You know what, Alex?’ His tone is ominously calm and even. ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’

This blow is so hard because it’s not been thrown at me in a blind hot rage. He’s had this thought more than once.

Without another word he gets up and stalks out of the room. I hear him angrily grab his car keys, then the main door of the apartment opens and slams so hard it shakes the apartment – and me – to the core; and he’s gone.

Chapter 9

Two months later, I’m sat in a hipster-style cafe in the West End opposite Sasha, while torrential rain lashes the pavement unforgivingly outside. Tears track her cheeks as she watches the passers-by hurrying past, trying to dodge the streams of water rushing around their feet.

‘Sash, you understand why I have to do this, don’t you?’ My eyes seek out hers, but her gaze remains where it is. ‘Sash, please?’

She finally looks at me, eyes red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot. I feel a stab to my heart as I see what I’m doing to her, but there’s no room for guilt here. This is about having a future I can bear; perhaps even look forward to.

‘Of course, I understand, Lex. I know you better than anyone, but it doesn’t mean I like it or that I won’t worry about you.’ Her glassy eyes probe mine. ‘It’s like you’re rejecting everyone who loves you when you need them the most: your mum, John, your sister, me… Dom.’

‘Please don’t bring him up. Dom made it perfectly clear how he felt; it wasn’t what he signed up for.’ There’s a slight wobble to my voice and I realise I need to change the subject quickly. ‘All I’m doing, Sash, is making sure I can live my life on my terms. I can’t do that here. My colleagues treat me like I’ll crumble to dust at the slightest thing, and my mother and Carol are suffocating the life out of me.’

Within this outpouring, I omit the fact that Sasha herself, with her well-cultivated worry farm, has also not helped the situation.

She sighs and shrugs helplessly, unable to refute my case. I reach out and take her hand as a bolt of lightning pierces the sky outside, followed by an ominous cracking and deep rumble of thunder.

‘What about when you have a relapse?’ she asks. ‘What will you do?’

‘You know they have the NHS in Birmingham too, right? It’s not like I’m emigrating to the US without health insurance.’

‘I mean, if you’re struggling…’ Sasha chews her lip anxiously. ‘Who’s going to do your shopping? And what about work – you really think they manage sickness absence differently south of the border?’