I got down and shoved the robot, my head torch and the Ella’s Kitchen smoothie pouch back in my bag, making a mental note to throw it away as soon as I got home – accidentally feeding my daughter super-strength glue would be a traumatising end to the day.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Is everything OK in there?’ came Pam’s voice from outside.

‘Just wait a minute!’ Johnnie called. He came up to me and rumpled my hair with both his hands and tugged open my shirt. Johnnie went to the door and opened it a crack.

Pam was stood there beaming at him. A security guard was by her side.

‘Security were concerned by the noise. Just had to check all was—’

‘Could you call for the car, please, love?’ Johnnie cut her off as he swung open the door. She took in the broken table, the mess on the floor and the mess of my hair.

‘I . . . Well . . .’

‘Yeah, sorry about all that.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Things got a little crazy. If you know what I mean.’ He gave her a long stare as colour creeped up her cheeks. He motioned towards me. ‘Come on, babe. Time to go.’

The security guard stared at my exposed cleavage. I pulled my coat across and tried to walk out with as much pride as someone supposedly caught having wild sex with a rockstar could muster.

*

The BMW had been replaced with a limousine, with a handy screen separating the back from the uniformed chauffeur in the front. I gave an address to the driver and then joined Johnnie in the back seat.

‘Where are we dropping you?’ he asked as he continued to stare straight ahead, sunglasses still firmly on.

‘Just off the Hogarth Roundabout.’

He didn’t respond.

‘Traffic’s meant to be a nightmare on the M1,’ I offered.

‘I’m sure the driver knows.’

‘Right.’

I looked down at my phone. Google Maps said the journey was going to take twenty-nine minutes.

Prolonged uncomfortable small talk with an ex who hated me.

The shit I had to do for my country.

We sat in silence for eighteen solid minutes. I kept flicking through my phone. Johnnie didn’t even pretend to keep himself busy. He continued to sit staring straight ahead.

I refreshed my email inbox again. Nothing. Where was that urgent life or death email for your immediate attention when you needed it?

‘I’m sorry about the song.’ He didn’t look at me as he spoke.

Last year Johnnie had penned a hit song using me and our troubled history as inspiration. It was a scathing nod to my heartless nature and called, somewhat unimaginatively, ‘Killer’.

‘My therapist encourages me to write down my feelings. Sometimes they turn into songs.’