I hate being late for my clients. I don’t want them to be knocking on a door that’s not going to be opened. Or spend even a minute waiting for someone who they think doesn’t value their time. It all erodes their fragile spirit; yet another person has let them down. And I don’t want that person to be me.

I gather up the files on the table and tuck my laptop under my arm.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I call down the garden to the figure shrouded in shade. I rummage for an excuse, but it’s not as if I can get away with ‘the traffic was terrible’ or ‘I missed the train’. So instead, I’m honest and say, ‘I completely lost track of time.’

A woman who looks a lot like Anna steps out from the shadows, which completely confuses my already discombobulated brain.

‘Oh,’ I say, as I wait for her to morph into Melanie Langley.

‘I’m sorry, I just needed to see you before your first client,’ she says.

‘Is everything OK?’ I ask, conscious that I’ve not yet got around to finding her somewhere to live.

Her eyes instantly fill with tears.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘Can I come in, for just a minute?’ she says.

‘Of course,’ I say, fumbling with my keys to try to open the door.

‘Here, let me help you,’ she says.

As she reaches out to take the folders and laptop from under my arm, I see a vivid red welt on her wrist.

She catches me looking and quickly rearranges herself, pulling down the sleeve of her jacket.

‘What’s happened?’ I ask.

She doesn’t say anything as she follows me into the office.

‘Anna?’

She puts my things on the desk and takes a moment before turning around – I guess in an effort to compose herself. But she doesn’t need to put on a brave face for me.

‘Anna?’ I ask again, going to her and putting a hand on her shoulder.

As soon as she feels my touch, her shoulder caves in, as if it has been waiting for an excuse to.

‘What is it?’ I ask, my voice thick with empathy.

She automatically turns into me, her body racked with deep sobs. ‘I-I can’t . . .’ she whimpers. ‘I just can’t do this . . .’

‘It’s OK,’ I say, wrapping my arms around her. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

‘No, no, it’s not,’ she cries. ‘Nick went for one of the children last night.’

‘Oh my god,’ I say, holding her away from me. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s my fault,’ she says. ‘I should have expected it. He’s been acting so strangely recently and it’s all been building up to today.’

‘Today?’

She nods. ‘It’s the anniversary. It’s a year today that we lost Ben.’

‘Oh Anna, I’m so, so sorry.’