And then there are footsteps behind me. Loud and thudding. I almost trip on the cobbled road as I break into a run, no longer caring about showing any fear. I don’t stop until I reach my apartment block. My hand is shaking as I delve into my bag for the keys and I let the umbrella fall from my hand in my eagerness to get inside. Is it him? I imagine his bulldog-type face, his sneer, his anger, the last words he said to me ringing in my ears: I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch.

I grab the umbrella from the ground and hold it out in front of me, like a truncheon, as I push my shoulder into the door. And then I fall into the lobby, my heart hammering. As I close the door I take the opportunity to glance out into the street, but it’s empty.

I take the stairs two at a time to the first floor. The smell of cooking hits me as I walk through the door of our flat: beef and onions. I feel foolish now. I completely overreacted. I can’t let that thug scare me. I’ve been living here for nearly a year now and there’s been no sign of him. It was just an empty threat he made, I remind myself. I can’t live in fear.

I kick off my boots and hang up my coat before wandering into the open-plan kitchen-living room. The football is on the too-large widescreen TV. It’s not even Rory’s team but that doesn’t bother him: he’ll watch any match going. He has his back to me as he stands at the hob, stirring mince in a frying pan, watching the football out of the corner of his eye. He’s wearing an apron over his jeans and T-shirt, with a naked man’s torso on the front in frilly pink underwear that one of his brothers bought him for Christmas.