But what happened when she arrived at his office was unexpected. They simply had no clue where he was. They were happy enough to talk to her – in fact, once the receptionist realised who she was all the staff clustered around her, wanting photos, quotes, asking her about Rosie … And then they were asking about the baby, why no one was being allowed to see baby Will. She had to put her foot down.

‘I will speak to no one but Piotr Filipek,’ she said loudly, rolling the ‘r’ and projecting her voice the way old ladies can do. When she was younger she’d always imagined getting one of those buggies as an old person, so she could race through the streets shouting gossip and cackling. She’d never got the buggy but she could shout with the best of them – and she found it was most effective in front of people who thought you maternal and sweet. Having got their attention, she made her demand.

‘Tell me where I can find him,’ she said. ‘Now, please.’

And the receptionist started typing on his computer, the other journalists tapping into their phones to get contact details. They even wrote it down for her. She quickly had a mobile phone number, an email address, and a home address for Piotr Filipek.

‘Are you sure you should be giving this information out?’ she said, folding up the paper and burying it safe in her trouser pocket. The receptionist looked so upset then that she patted him on the head a couple of times, just for reassurance, and held on to his chin as she said a sincere Thank You. They all kept out of her way as she swept through the lobby. Ha!

Next she made her way straight to his flat. She pressed all the buzzers until someone let her in (it was that kind of neighbourhood, full of students) and in she went, climbing the stairs to locate his front door and hammer on it with her walking stick.

There was no answer.

She hammered louder.

Nothing.

She listened close to the door, peered through the letter box. From somewhere out of sight there came a miaow. Other than the cat, it seemed there was nobody home.

Very well, she thought, and sat on the stairs to wait. It looked like the banister had just been replaced – it was shiny and clean, unlike the rest of the drab stairwell. Twice people walked past, heading down from the flats above, stopping to ask if she was OK, if she needed help, if she was lost …

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you. I have an appointment,’ she replied each time.

An hour passed.

Her bottom started to ache from sitting on the cold stair. Her knee felt tender where it was bruised. Her stomach was growling for some breakfast, but she didn’t care. Sooner or later, he’d have to show up.