‘You’ve had enough sleep for today, Zoe. It’s making you even more drowsy. You need to sit up for a bit.’

I don’t quite understand her logic, but she is a nurse, so I guess she’s the expert. All I know is that I feel absolutely dreadful – nauseous, dizzy, exhausted and shaky. I let her support me and we make the half dozen shuffling steps over to the chair. Celia is sturdy and capable, and I feel reassured that she won’t let me fall. Finally, I sink gratefully into the armchair. But within seconds, I start to feel awful again. I’m still having real trouble breathing. And there’s a heaviness in my brain. Maybe it’s the weight of my memory. The fact that my marriage is over, and my sister is dead.

‘Where’s my phone?’ I need to call the police. But how can I do that with Celia here? I have to somehow get rid of her. But there’s something really wrong with me. I don’t feel well at all. ‘I feel like I’m going to die.’

‘Shh, you’re fine, Zoe. Just try to calm down. Inhale for five seconds, and exhale for eight.’

I do as she says. Feeling the air come in through my nostrils, but I can’t seem to suck it in any deeper. I try again, and this time it feels a little easier. Once I can get my breathing under control, hopefully I’ll start to feel better and Celia will agree to leave me alone. Then I can make that call.

Celia takes my hand, but I can barely feel her touch – my fingers seem to have gone completely numb. ‘In through the nose.’ She breathes with me. ‘And out through the mouth.’ She guides me through this mantra a few times until my breathing finally slows a little. ‘Much better. Okay, keep up the deep breathing and I’ll be back in a minute. I just need to wash my hands.’

While Celia disappears into the bathroom, I keep up the breathing and, while I still feel as though someone’s sitting on my chest, at least I’m no longer gasping like a landed fish. I wonder why she needs to wash her hands, unless she thinks I’ve got some contagious bug.

Celia returns to the room and retrieves her bag from the foot of the bed.

‘Why are you wearing those gloves?’ I croak. I’m sure she wasn’t wearing them a minute ago.

‘Oh, I always wear surgical gloves when I give injections. It’s part of procedure. Hygiene, dear.’

‘Injection?’ I pant. ‘What injection?’

‘No need to look so worried.’ She smiles. ‘It’s just a fast-acting sedative to help calm you down. It works far better intravenously than a pill. I often give it to patients who are suffering from panic attacks and anxiety. You’ll feel calmer in no time.’