I opened my mouth to persuade him to drop what he was doing and call it a night, but Doug swivelled his attention back to his glowing PC screen. The light emphasised the stubborn smudges under his eyes. “Night, Leonie. See you tomorrow.”

I drove the short journey to my parents’, inwardly cursing the weather. It had been awful first thing, the rain splattering down my bedroom window. Now, the October evening was splashed with smudges of pale-lemon sun.

I would have much preferred to have walked to Mum and Dad’s. They lived ten minutes away from the seafront and just another fifteen minutes from my little cottage. I would have valued the time to breathe in the sea air and attempt to untangle the merry-go-round whirring in my head. To try and reconcile what I was going to do next. How I was going to come to terms with being out of a job. A job that I loved and didn’t dread waking up to five days a week.

I negotiated the cobbled streets, fringed with the assorted bed and breakfast cottages and hanging baskets, and drove past the shops, their decorated doorways festooned with everything from postcards to beachballs.

I left behind the swell of the harbour in the rear-view mirror and reached Mum and Dad’s on autopilot. I eased into the kerb and sat for a few moments outside their 70s-style detached house. I would now have to tell my parents.

Dread pooled inside my stomach. They would worry, especially Mum. She would deny it of course, but she would be wringing her hands and fretting to Dad when I wasn’t within earshot.

My hands gripped the steering wheel. Get on with it, Leonie. Rip the plaster away from the wound.

I could imagine my Mum’s panic-stricken gaze as she bundled me into her arms. Dad would deliver a torrent of positive, comforting words, assuring me I would find something else in no time.

As I clambered out of my car, it felt as if I were wading through treacle. Putting one foot in front of the other was demanding every ounce of effort I had. The prospect of telling them was making me feel queasy.

With no time to dwell any longer on their reaction, their front door burst open and Harley, my ten-month-old rescue cockapoo puppy, came barrelling down the path towards me.

I swept her plump wriggling mass of toffee-coloured curls up and cradled her in my arms. She lashed my face with her baby-pink tongue. The unconditional love she was demonstrating made me struggle to compose myself. I just wanted to bury my face in her and forget what an utterly shit day it had been. Wipe today from my memory.