I’ve imagined every feasible scenario, from him coming in all guns blazing, accusing me of leading him on, to saying hello, sitting down on the couch and pretending it never happened. In an ideal world, I’d like somewhere in between.

We need to address what happened if I’m to continue seeing him, but it needs to be done in a calm and mature manner. It would have helped if he’d returned my call – even if he’d just left a message, as I’d have been able to gauge his tone and read the gaps between the words. But I’ve not heard from him and I’m beginning to panic that something has happened.

It’s that thought I battle with all day as I sit at the dining room table, attempting to do some admin. Despite the sun shining through the window and Motown Gold on the radio, I still can’t shake off the horrific image of Vanessa handcuffing Jacob to a bed and torturing him until he begs for mercy and promises that he’ll go back to her.

I wonder how much he’ll be able to take before he bows to her demands. Will he succumb at the first physical blow? Or will the months of therapy have taught him that he’s so much stronger than he gives himself credit for?

With my fifth coffee of the day in hand, I take myself down to the office and watch the minutes tick ever closer to six p.m. Jacob’s always on time, if not early, and he’s got about thirty seconds until I start pacing the floor, wondering what to do if he doesn’t show. I absently thumb my necklace as I check the garden path, believing that if I pretend everything’s all right, everything will be all right.

But by ten past, the storm clouds are beginning to gather in my head, their ominous presence darkening any prospect of Jacob being alive, let alone feeling comfortable enough to come and see me.

I try to remain calm, forcing myself to acknowledge that he could be late for a variety of reasons, none of which involve Vanessa, or me. He might have forgotten (though he remembered the night before last). He might have had an unforeseen event happen at school. I go so far as imagining him being lumbered with detention duties or an unscheduled meeting with a concerned parent.

At half past, I call his mobile and it goes straight to answerphone. I wonder if my garbled message from yesterday is still lying unheard, banked up with those from everyone else wondering where he is.

I chastise myself for being over-dramatic; he’s probably gone straight to the pub with his colleagues, drinking to his new-found freedom and having fun.