I tense up as I look around the bustling reception, wondering if I’ll see Andy, my old boss, or any of my other former colleagues from when I used to work here as a receptionist. I can’t help but wonder if I’m not also keeping half an eye out for a woman I won’t be able to recognize.

There’s an attractive blonde talking to the concierge and I manage to convince myself that it might be Jacob’s wife. That she’s somehow beaten us here. It’s ridiculous, I know, but still I quicken my step and manhandle Jacob towards the bar, where I know a whisky will settle his nerves.

‘So, what else did she say?’ I ask, as I head for the far end of the bar, out of view of the doorway. ‘Did she say anything specific about your whereabouts? Did she threaten you in any way?’

He forces a laugh. ‘She doesn’t need to say much for me to know what she actually means.’

‘But perhaps she was calling your bluff,’ I offer. ‘She might not know where you live. She might have just said it to intimidate you.’

He looks at me as if I’m a child who hasn’t grasped something they’ve already been told a million times. ‘She has my phone number,’ he says bluntly. ‘If she’s been able to get hold of that, then she would have been able to find out where I live.’

‘Yes, but . . .’ I start before trailing off, at a loss for words for once.

His eyes flit around the room like a cornered wild animal, assessing the risks and trusting no one. ‘And besides, Vanessa isn’t in the habit of bluffing,’ he says eventually. ‘She tends to follow through.’

It’s the first time that he’s mentioned his wife by name – only ever having previously referred to ‘her’ or ‘she’ – and, now that she has a name, I can picture her more easily.

I imagine how they would have looked when they were a couple; a supposedly happy couple. Jacob with his dark hair flopping down over his blue eyes, and a dimpled school-boy grin that spreads wide across his face. Vanessa, elegant, serene, with highlighted hair piled on top of her head; a thin-lipped, contained smile, giving her a distinguished air that she clearly doesn’t deserve.

Despite my better judgement, I order a whisky for each of us and the first swig burns the back of my throat, but the potent liquid instantly desensitizes my jangling nerve endings. Or maybe I’ve just watched too many movies and am imagining it.

‘So, what am I going to do?’ asks Jacob, grimacing, after downing his in one hit.

‘Well, you obviously can’t go back to the apartment,’ I say. ‘You’re going to have to stay here, at least for tonight, until we work out a way around this.’