I can’t do this, can’t carry on being Vanessa, the level-headed professional. She, and the life she had enjoyed, are gone for ever. This is the new reality: trembling hands, heart palpitations, anger and fear. In the course of a few weeks I have turned into a wreck. I have to get out of here. I have to not be around people because I can’t keep my anger in check and that is what scares me more than anything.

‘I’m sorry, Anne,’ I say, getting unsteadily to my feet. ‘I just can’t do this. And I don’t want to cause you and the team any more inconvenience. You don’t deserve that. I can’t work here any more. I’m sorry.’

It’s like a stranger has invaded my body and is speaking on my behalf. This place, this job, the pretty art deco building overlooking Sloane Square, has been my life, my dream. The elation I felt, five years ago, when Anne offered me the position, was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. I had become an adult. My life had begun.

‘Vanessa,’ cries Anne as I head for the door. ‘Please think about this. Let us help you. You’re obviously going through something stressful, that’s clear to see, but it’s not insurmountable. Talk to us, Vanessa, before you do something you’ll regret.’

I turn then and look at her. Anne, my mentor and confidante, the woman who took a chance on me, who cared for me and nurtured me, had filled a mother-shaped gap like Georgie had – and Lottie too, I suddenly realize. How can I treat her like this? I owe Anne so much more.

But the pain inside me is so great it outweighs any sense of loyalty or duty. All I know is that I have to get out of here. I have to do as Connor says.

‘I’m sorry, Anne,’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘But this is my final decision.’

‘You did the right thing,’ whispers Connor as we lie in bed that evening. ‘I’m proud of you, baby.’

I’m curled up in my usual foetal position. Connor pulls me towards him and kisses me deeply. At first it’s nice but then as I feel him growing hard I remember the gnawing pain as the baby came away, the blood on the sheets, the towels.

‘No, Connor,’ I say, pushing him off gently. ‘I’m not feeling too good.’

‘That makes sense,’ says Connor, a sharp edge to his voice. ‘I read that frigidity is another symptom of nervous breakdowns.’

He kisses my forehead.

‘But don’t worry,’ he says, turning away from me. ‘We’ll get you well again.’