I can’t just call her or rock up at her office. I want to see her from afar, not confront her. I change tack and log on to Twitter. If she works in communications then she’s bound to have a Twitter account. I put her name in the search box and push away the niggle of jealousy that she’s working in a field so similar to Mum’s while I was always so rubbish at writing. Still, she is on the dark side of the industry, as Mum used to call PR.

I scroll through the results, discarding a @Hedi_BW in Germany and @HediBuchs83 in Austria. The third profile is hers.

@HediBuchsWil

Communications Manager for @StapenhillFoundation. Swiss girl in London. Don’t call me Heidi. Views my own.

Again, her profile picture doesn’t show her face clearly and I swallow back my frustration. I just want to see her. I read through her latest tweets and suddenly I know what I must do. A colleague leaving. A reference to after-work drinks.

@freddiej are you coming to Henry’s Bar?

I know the place.

I check my watch. 5pm. I shut my laptop, put my phone in my handbag. I go to the toilet, pat some concealer on the dark circles under my eyes, brush my hair, apply a slick of lip gloss, take deep breaths. My stomach is fluttering, but I ignore it and walk out the door.

I take the train from Peckham Rye to London Bridge, change for Charing Cross, and walk to the bar. Should I be doing this? Nervous energy propels me forward. My mission has come so far, I have to finish the task I set myself two years ago. I can’t not, now.

Henry’s Bar is heaving with people and straight away I realise how ridiculous this is. How do I find her when I don’t even know what she looks like? I take off my jacket and head to the bar, waiting my turn to order a virgin mojito – I want a clear head for this.

It’s 6pm, the start of happy hour. I’m surrounded by office workers letting off steam on a Thursday night and I feel conspicuous in my solitude. Who goes to a place like this by themselves unless they want to get picked up?

I walk around the large, low-lit space, pretending I’m searching for someone, but I don’t see her. Then again, I don’t know what I’m looking for. I head back to the bar, sit on an empty swivel stool at the end near the entrance and sip my drink. I take out my phone and check Hedi’s Twitter feed again.

No more updates.

I wonder if they’ve changed their minds, if they’re going somewhere else. But then I realise that if it’s a planned event they’ll likely have reserved a space.