I’m trapped. She is plainly not going to move on while I am here. Should I tell her that I think I’ve had a break-in and ask her to come with me inside? A few minutes ago I was frantic, desperate for help. But now, with the morning sun delineating the Fields with such sharp clarity, and Mary’s quizzical eyes on me, my fear seems ridiculous. If I tried to explain myself, I’d come across like a headcase.

‘I’ll see you at the office,’ I say.

‘Might be an idea to put on some trousers.’

I laugh, slightly too much. I know there isn’t a cat’s chance in hell she won’t tell the entire newsroom she saw me in the street in my underwear. I fold the newspaper under my left arm, nod goodbye, and turn to go back in. It’s not until after I’ve closed the door that I hear the clack of her heels walking on again.

I’m shaky. With trepidation, I search every room, look behind every door and round the back of the sofa, pull the curtains out, open every cupboard, check the shower cubicle.

Everything is as it should be. The windows are fastened shut and the garden door is deadbolted. If there was an intruder in my flat, he got out before I woke.

Once I am sure I’m alone, I carry out a stock check. The telly, the VCR, the Sky box, the Bang and Olufsen CD player, the Acoustics Research speakers, and my pride and joy, my Sansui belt turntable: nothing has been nicked. The work laptop is in its shoulder bag, my inherited gold cufflinks – possibly the only transportable items of any value – are in their little box on top of the chest of drawers. The two Nokias and my pagers are on the side table where they belong. I’d already noticed that my bike is where it should be in the hall. And the heavy silver art deco menorah, inherited from my great-great uncle, is on the mantelpiece in the living room. I can’t think there was anything else worth stealing. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.

I pick up the Yellow Pages and agree to pay an exorbitant amount of money for a Banham locksmith to come straight-away. No chance of relaxing until he has replaced all the front door locks. After I’ve tested them once, twice, three times, and he’s gone, I shower and put on a simple Paul Smith single-breasted suit, grey with the faintest of blue stripe. It’s a Missoni day, and I knot the woven silk tie that’s assorted threads of blue and pink. I miss you Clare, I miss you Clare, I miss you Clare. The sotto voce chant calms me.