The fifteen minutes after I hand in my resignation pass in a blur. Where Anne is incredibly sympathetic, though bewildered at my lack of an explanation, Heidi Wilson is steely-eyed and professional. Both of them want answers but I’m reluctant to give any, save to say, vaguely, that I have some personal issues I need to deal with.

I sit in the comfy chair opposite Anne, as I have done so many times, and she looks at me like a mother would look at a daughter who has transformed, seemingly overnight, from a positive, eloquent, happy child to a surly teenager. I can see she is desperately trying to reach out to me but I refuse to meet her eye, knowing that if I do I will crumble. I can’t allow myself to do that.

Heidi Wilson is impatient and pressing for a reason but I remain vague.

‘Vanessa, the company has recently introduced the Luna London Living scheme, which I’m sure you’re aware of,’ she says, glancing down at her notebook.

I am well aware of the scheme. In fact, I helped devise it with Anne at the end of last year. I had seen a lot of the team, particularly the younger members, struggle with city living over the years and both Anne and I felt we should do something to help. The scheme offered therapy, counselling, mindfulness and yoga sessions, and was available to all employees.

‘I am aware of it, yes,’ I say, trying not to look at Anne, imagining her bemused expression. ‘But I don’t feel it’s relevant to my situation.’

‘Vanessa, please talk to me,’ says Anne, reaching her hand out to touch my arm, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘I don’t know what has happened but you know that I am here for you twenty-four/seven. You’re my right-hand woman, Vanessa. I … I can’t imagine Luna London without you.’

She stares at me intently, as though willing me to share whatever it is that is going on in my head. ‘We just need you to be open with us, Vanessa,’ she says pleadingly. ‘Whatever it is that’s troubling you, we can sort it out.’

As she says those words I make the mistake of meeting her eye. When I do I remember those endless Sunday lunches round her kitchen table, the joy on her face when I cut my first deal; then, in a blink, I see crumpled sheets, two bloodied boxers staring each other down, the nurse asking me if I am quite sure, Connor’s mother clutching her face, my own blood smeared on hotel towels, and my eyes fill with tears.