My insides relax and I let out the deep breath that my clenched muscles had prevented me from releasing. I’d had no idea how uptight I’d been; though it’s no surprise that my body is reacting to the stress my mind is under.

I take a moment, after unplugging my seat belt, to gather my thoughts. This is still going to be awkward, not least because of how it was left the other night, but because I’m knocking on his door at seven o’clock in the evening.

But awkwardness is a risk I’m going to have to take, as I can’t possibly drive away without seeing him and knowing he’s OK.

I clear my throat as I press the buzzer for Flat A. There’s a click as if someone has answered the intercom and then nothing. I push the door, wondering if the noise was the door being let off the latch, but it’s stuck fast. I wait a few seconds and try again. There’s that click again.

‘Jacob?’ I say. ‘Are you there?’

It sounds as if the line’s open, that someone is there but not responding.

I call his mobile again and walk around to the front window, pressing my ear up against the glass. It’s muffled, but there’s no mistaking the persistent ringtone of an incoming call. He’s definitely in there.

My finger presses down on the doorbell until it clicks again.

‘I know you’re in there,’ I say into the speaker, lowering my voice as a passer-by looks my way. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened the other night, but surely we’ve got to be a bit grown-up about this?’

Although it’s a rhetorical question, I’d quite like a response. But there’s nothing except a loud silence.

‘Why don’t you just open the door so we can talk?’

It occurs to me for the first time that this might not actually be a simple case of embarrassment and dented pride.

‘Is she in there with you?’ I ask, unable to stop myself from picturing him bound to a chair and gagged. ‘You’re going to need to come out,’ I go on, sounding braver than I feel. ‘Because I’m not leaving until I see you.’

‘I don’t think he’s in,’ comes a voice as the door finally opens. A weary-looking woman stands there with a baby on her hip, jiggling him up and down. ‘But if you know where to find him, I’d appreciate you asking him to turn off the music that’s blaring from the back room on repeat – it’s keeping my baby awake.’

‘Oh, right,’ is all I’m able to offer, my head a fog of confusion, as I picture Vanessa conducting a Reservoir Dogs-style interrogation to ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’.