Toffee strains at his lead, wanting to get back to his nice warm bed. I walk away from the parade into the residential streets and soon find myself at the end of Camomile Avenue where Anna Foreman lives. The lights in her cottage are out. I linger in the shadows for a few minutes, crouched beside Toffee, my hand on his head to keep him from getting anxious. I watch her door then walk away, angry at myself. My suspicions are laughable; awakened by such a tiny thing. Nick wouldn’t. He’s the most loyal person I’ve ever met.

I type out a message. Where are you? I’m getting worried. Two minutes later I still haven’t had a reply. My phone is hot in my hand.

He might be back when I get home. Oh God, I hope so. And if he’s not, then he will be some time during the night. I imagine waking up to find his warm body beside mine, the excuses he’ll make. Then normality; downstairs to let Toffee out into the garden, coffee on to brew, and the familiar slow routine of a Sunday morning. That’s normal. That’s what will happen. All this is just a wrinkle. It’ll smooth itself out.

The house is silent, Nick’s keys aren’t in the dish, and his coat isn’t hanging from its hook; their absence as tangible as the objects themselves would have been. I unwind my scarf, remove my coat and hang them up. In the kitchen, I check In-Step again, as Toffee yawns and settles back down in his bed. Nick hasn’t moved.

In desperation, I call our local A & E, but they’ve had no one in who matches Nick’s description. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment churns through me.

Should I call the police? If I do, it makes it real. If I don’t, I may regret it. But they’ll think I’m pathetic. They probably get calls like this all the time: some clingy woman can’t sleep because her boyfriend hasn’t come in. I lay my phone down in front of me and switch on the television, scrolling through Netflix until I find something to take my mind off the time. It’s past two o’clock when I finally can’t stand it any more and crack.

The voice on the other end of the line is a woman’s; her tone is sympathetic but professional. I answer her questions and feel her lose interest.

‘I’ll get a message to Control, but he doesn’t sound as though he’s at risk.’

‘But he hasn’t come home.’

She sighs. ‘Come into the station in the morning if he hasn’t returned.’