Every time the doors to the ward open, I pray to see Stuart and not the police. I ring him every twenty minutes. Panic at being trapped and so helpless is utterly surreal and petrifying. When I see a message from Stuart, I want to cry with relief.

Camilla’s fine. She’s back at the house. She got a taxi, which she says you owe her for by the way. She’s furious, but relieved. Especially when I told her where her phone was hidden. Without her contacts, she couldn’t remember any phone numbers.

Did she say anything else? I message back.

What I mean is, is she going to call the police and tell them I locked her in her room, then stole her car? I doubt it—she’s hardly likely to want to get them involved after confessing to murdering my old boyfriend—but being helpless creates powerful paranoia.

I’m going to drive her to the hospital to get her car, then she’s heading home. She’s not going to say anything, but she’s as mad as a snake. I’ll check into a hotel, get some sleep. I’ll see you both as soon as poss in the morning.

The woman next to me sobs relentlessly, yet I’m unable to move to go and comfort her. The pain, the spaced-out feeling, the sheer sense of powerlessness is overwhelming again. This is not what I had in mind when I craved being a mother, not at all. When I look at my baby, rather than being in awe, I pray that he doesn’t start crying again.

I’m wrung-out by the time Stuart visits. I can’t feed Jack. Formula is a totally frowned-upon no-no. I learned this in prenatal classes, where everything sounded so straightforward and simple. I’m desperate and exhausted.

“I’ll sort this,” Stuart says.

It’s such a relief to hear those words. He arranges a single room for me, reserved mainly for women who need longer hospital stays. Once I’ve been assisted upright and proved I can stand, then walk, unaided, I’m wheelchaired to the relative sanctuary of the private room. Finally, Jack feeds. He feels calmer in my arms. I cry in gratitude. When he falls asleep, Stuart lifts him from me and places him in his Perspex cot attached to my bed.

From where I’m lying, all I can see are windows. Yet, my world exists here, in this room. It’s tricky to imagine that life really is going on outside.

Yet it is. A message from Camilla among the many good wishes (there’s even one from Ben) bursts my bubble.

Greg’s dumped me. But that’s not the problem. We need to talk as soon as you get back. (And not through a bloody door this time or on some drive in the middle of nowhere.) Don’t think I won’t hold that against you forever. Btw, I know I’m supposed to say “congratulations” and ask how you are, etc. But this is important otherwise I’d be ignoring you.

I message back. OK. Sorry.