The thought of going into the village and facing all those yoga-trim Yummy Mummies who frequent its shops and cafes makes my heart sink but I know staying in bed, enclosed inside four walls, is not what I need right now.

‘A walk would be good,’ I say, putting on my best ‘everything is fine’ face for Georgie. ‘Give me ten minutes to get ready.’

She smiles though she can’t hide the worried look in her eyes. I feel wretched for what I put her through last night, having to see me being led away by the police like that. I’ll make it up to her, I tell myself as she leaves the room and heads downstairs. Buy her lunch in that new French place that’s opened up in the village. I look down and see the letters scattered on the floor. A feeling of dread rises up inside me as I look at my childish writing. All I can think is that Dad must have found them in the loft or something and he’s decided to return them to me now in some misguided attempt at recovering our relationship. I need to get them out of my sight. I climb out of bed, then scoop the letters up and put them into the bottom drawer, underneath a pile of winter sweaters.

Fifteen minutes later, washed and dressed, I accompany Georgie along the narrow lane that connects their row of houses to the wild expanse of Wimbledon Common. The sun beats down on us as we cross the road, weaving in and out of dog walkers and families who have been lured out of their houses by the glorious weather.

‘Summer’s last hoorah,’ says Georgie, lifting her face to the sky. ‘Things always feel better when the sun shines.’

She turns to me and takes my arm gently.

‘I meant what I said last night, Nessa,’ she says, pausing as a young black spaniel bounds across the path in front of us. ‘Whatever is going on, whatever it is that’s bothering you. You can tell me. Keeping things bottled up is never a good thing in the long run. I know that more than anyone.’