By the time I approached Shepherd’s Bush tube, that lightness had evaporated, anxiety rushing into the void. Could I do this? The tube heard my prayers, idling in a tunnel for a good five minutes, but soon it started up again, and I was standing in front of the slab of concrete in Westminster where I worked. I swiped my pass through the barriers, then watched my finger approach the button for the lift, seeing it light up. For a moment, it felt as if I was watching a reconstruction of my last day on earth.

I was edging my way across the floor when he spotted me.

‘Rachel!’

I’d hoped to sneak to my desk and then hide behind my computer, staring so determinedly at the screen that my diligence would repel any conversation, but Duncan was heading straight for me.

‘I didn’t think you’d make it back this week.’

Flecks of white gunk – baby food, I guessed, unlikely to be cocaine – peppered his moss-green jumper, his shaggy brown hair sticking up in spikes like a drunken hedgehog. He and his wife – a policy adviser in the Treasury – had had expensive IVF twins a year ago, and since then he exuded ‘harassed dad’ as if it was a particularly overpowering aftershave. Duncan’s wariness made his smile go crooked, but he couldn’t quite stifle his natural warmth. ‘Well done.’

‘I didn’t want to leave you all in the lurch. There’s so much to do…’

He lowered his voice. ‘So, it wasn’t appendicitis in the end? From what your mum said, it was pretty dramatic.’

‘They’re still running tests,’ I said, my voice staying impressively steady. If lying was something people actually looked for on a CV, I’d be headhunted daily. ‘It’s possible it was a virus. They’ll monitor me for a few weeks, but hopefully it was a one off.’

‘Well…’ His shoulders slumped downwards. Admitting to himself it was a blatant untruth would add an extra ton of stress to his already impossible load. Better to kick the problem down the field, deal with it later. ‘Excellent. We should still be on track to get the proposal on teachers’ housing done for the end of next week. If you can just plough on…’

‘Consider me your favourite lady farmer,’ I said, then cringed in case he thought I was flirting. He had nothing to fear. Duncan – or at least single Duncan – was exactly the kind of man I should have fancied, but never did.

‘Great,’ he said, and we lingered awkwardly for a second too long before heading to our respective desks.