I’ve got to go home, or hide in the loos for the rest of the day. I fidget in my swivel chair. I won’t get paid if I go home. I’ve had way too much time off already. The thing is, I can’t afford the apartment now anyway, not since William left. I need to do something – something else, something to make life worth living again. But then how can I do that without Mum, without Lark, without William, without my precious unborn child?

I look out of the window once more. The tall buildings of London surround me, and The Gherkin feels so close. I’m tempted to open the window and lean out – try to touch it. I would fall, of course. Tumble to my death, and possibly make headlines in The Metro. But then nobody would care. Not a single soul would miss me – except perhaps my dad, and possibly my brother Thomas.

I roll my chair back over the plush carpet, put the photo of William in the bin, and my Thor figure, that Thomas bought me a few years back because I told him I love Chris Hemsworth, in my bag. I grab my jacket, rise, and head for the door, throwing one look over my shoulder at the rabbit warren of desks. Nobody looks my way. I’m right. Nobody will miss me.

Outside, I dash towards London Bridge Underground, pushing through the crowds. I won’t cry, I tell myself. I’m all cried out.

*

‘William, it’s me. Pick up, please.’ I’m pissed, sobbing into my phone, my cat curled on my knee, her purr giving me comfort. Drunk-me is far too needy, and I seem to turn to her too often lately. ‘Call me, please. I need you right now.’ It’s the tenth time I’ve called and it’s only seven o’clock. Ten times he’s ignored me.

I throw my phone across the room. It hits a photo of us in Rhodes. It clatters on the dresser. The glass cracks. Were we even happy then? I know it was difficult when Mum got cancer, and everything that followed was impossible – William struggled with me struggling, which made me struggle even more.

I look at the empty wine bottle, before burying my head in my hands until the tears stop. And then it hits me. I need my dad, to feel the comfort of his arms around me. But I can’t take off to Berwick-upon-Tweed and leave my cat – who now looks up at me as though she knows what I’m thinking. ‘But if I stay here, sweetie, I’ll go crazy,’ I say, tickling her soft ears.

Later, after crying on my neighbour’s doorstep – a kindly twenty-something with pink hair – she gives me a much-needed hug. ‘You’ve been through hell, Amelia,’ she says. ‘Of course I’ll look after your cat. Take as long as you need.’