I clip on his lead and leave the house, striding north, phone in hand, tapping the screen to check the app every few seconds, dog-legging through wide, tree-lined streets. We are conservation here, red-brick, detached double-fronted Victorian villas, far enough from central London to have been built with a generous gap between them. Nine hundred steps brings me to the edge of the Common where I let Toffee off his lead. He scampers around, racing up to other dogs, but he doesn’t stray out of earshot. One thousand three hundred more steps take me to the far side, where I linger by the bus stop, looking across at the minimart, the gift shop, the estate agent’s and the Costa. It’s full of women chatting over their lattes, prams beside them. I imagine Nick crossing the road at a stroll, with no particular aim. Or was he hurrying; needing to be somewhere, to talk to someone? Was it a woman, or a man? Did he owe something? Loyalty or money? Love or sex?

I cross at the lights and walk to the Queen’s Arms, bracing myself. Even though I’m now incredibly scared it still feels a little embarrassing to be in a pub asking if they’ve seen my man.

I show the barkeeper a picture of Nick on my phone, and to my surprise and relief she nods.

‘He came in on Saturday night, but he didn’t stay long. He had one drink and left.’

‘Did he talk to anybody?’

‘Not so’s I’d notice.’ She starts to wipe down the bar.

‘How did he seem?’

‘All right, I suppose, maybe a bit dejected. He sat over there.’ She indicates a table in the corner. ‘No one joined him.’

All I can think of is that word. Dejected. ‘Do you remember what he drank?’

‘Whisky. A double with ice.’

‘Really?’ Nick has never been interested in spirits – a tot of brandy in a hot chocolate on a winter evening, but that’s all.

From there I check the shops that would still have been open. The manager at the minimart wasn’t in on Saturday night, but says that if Nick did come in it’ll be on their CCTV. He takes my number and says he’ll check when he has a chance. He gives me a pitying look as I leave, like he thinks I’m deluding myself. I can imagine what he’s thinking: the boyfriend’s done a bunk. It’s tough, but people do that shit.

In the off-licence, the owner says good afternoon, hands on the counter, leaning forward. He knows me.

‘Didn’t see him,’ he replies to my enquiry. ‘Are you sure he came in? Didn’t go to the competition?’ He tips his chin in the general direction of his rival, the minimart.

I blush. ‘Maybe.’

He smiles and shrugs. ‘Use us or lose us.’