I fire it off to Isla at lunchtime at work. She has agreed to give it a once-over, and tart it up if necessary (being more au fait than I am with museum-type speak). The plan is, she’ll then pass it over to her colleague who has the power to make decisions about temporary exhibitions and events.

I am beside myself with anxiety as I wait for Isla’s response. The mental woolliness is back – the affliction that caused me to post my house keys – and Rose is in meetings all afternoon, requiring the ferrying in of numerous trays of coffees and teas. In and out I flit, barely acknowledged until she finally glances round and suggests that biscuits would be welcome: ‘Any of those shortbread fingers kicking around, Viv?’

At just gone 4.30 there’s a text from Isla: No need for any tarting up. It’s perfect as it is. I’m printing it off now, will let you know the response asap. It’s brilliant!

Rose catches me later, buoyed up as I finish up for the day. ‘Everything okay today?’ she asks, pausing by my desk.

‘Yes, all good thanks.’

She studies me as if I have done something different, either to my face or my hair, and she can’t quite figure out what it is. ‘Thanks for doing all that running around for me today. Fetching all the teas and coffees, I mean.’

‘No problem,’ I say.

‘And thanks for fixing that thing with the PowerPoint.’

‘That’s no bother at all.’ I smile at her and she wanders away, then looks back.

‘I just wanted you to know you’re appreciated,’ she says, holding my gaze for a moment before slinging her camel leather bag over her shoulder and striding out to the lift.

Friday, September 13

I know it’s only been twenty-four hours. People are busy – of course they’re not going to respond right away. But by the end of the day I have still heard precisely nothing yet from Isla. I’m reminded of my dad, catching me glancing accusingly at the phone when some boy or other hadn’t called.

‘A watched phone never rings,’ he remarked with a smile.

‘Leave her be,’ Mum chastised him. ‘You’re only making it worse by going on about it.’

He looked at me and grinned. ‘Is it all right if I make a phone call, or d’you want to keep the line free?’ That was Dad all over; gently teasing, making me smile amidst the angst. Anyway, today is Friday the 13th – not that I am remotely superstitious – so maybe it’s best that I don’t hear anything?

At the office, so I can’t endlessly check for messages. I resort to hiding my phone in a drawer.

Saturday, September 14