‘Phillipa, I am so sorry, I meant to call you, but it’s been one of those mornings and it went out of my head. Nick’s ill.’

‘We’ve been worried,’ Phillipa says. ‘He was supposed to be in a meeting this morning.’

‘Oh God. He did tell me that. This is my fault, but he was up all night vomiting and he went back to sleep, and then I had to get Lottie ready for school and walk the dog.’

‘Poor thing,’ Phillipa says. ‘Can I talk to him?’

I grimace. ‘He’s asleep and I’d rather not disturb him. I’m sure he’ll be in tomorrow, but I’ll pass on the message once he wakes up.’

I don’t care that I lied; I’m a good liar and I’ll lie for Nick. In his world you don’t wobble, because the moment you do, you’re perceived as weak. Nick would do anything rather than demonstrate frailty, physical or mental. And after all, this might all go away. Mum vanished for an entire week once, then walked in the door like nothing had happened. Nick will have some excuse. I go still. Do I really believe that? What excuse could possibly cover this apart from some terrible accident? I don’t want to think about it. He’ll come home.

Methodically I start to gather my things – my keys, sunglasses, notebook and digital recorder, tape measure and pencil – and line them up on the counter. These days I work for a property developer carrying out inventories, sorting out contracts, finding tenants, overseeing refurbishments. Rupert, my boss, gives me free rein but has high standards, as do his clients. The properties I manage are upmarket homes in the smarter boroughs and the tenants tend to be foreign, of high net worth and equally high expectations. If I’m doing an inventory I’m generous about it; these houses rent for thousands of pounds a week, so it doesn’t pay to be nit-picking. If the client is bringing their own furniture, I see to its installation. I make sure the fridge is stocked with basics before they arrive and that there are fresh flowers in the reception rooms. Attention to detail and a welcoming atmosphere make a lasting impression.

When I’ve got everything together, the worry comes surging back in and I collapse heavily on to a chair. I’m tired to my bones and it’s making me nauseous. I’ve been picking at food indiscriminately since Lottie went to school. Biscuits, an apple, cheese. Half a flapjack. A chunk or three of chocolate. Two cups of coffee and one mug of strong tea. My stomach is protesting.

I’ve got to get on. I tidy myself up. Straighten my top. One step at a time.