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I turn and hurry across the road to Del’s, constantly looking over my shoulder.

The bistro is the last place on earth I want to be right now. I feel nauseous, and my dread at facing my colleagues is only amplified when three sets of cautious eyes monitor my walk from the door to the kitchen. I feel judged. I am being judged. They all think I’m daft, but they haven’t experienced Miller when he’s not armoured up in one of his fine three-piece suits. They have drawn their conclusions on the little information they know, and I’m past the point of feeling the need to justify my relationship with London’s most notorious ex-escort, to Sylvie, Del, Gregory, or anyone for that matter. It’s exhausting enough trying to justify it to Miller, and he’s the only one who really matters. God help me and my ears if any one of these people were to discover Miller’s history. To them, he is simply an uptight arsehole who’s played me. And it’ll stay that way.

‘Morning.’ Sylvie’s tone is lacking its usual chirpiness, her hands redundant on the filter handle of the coffee machine.

‘Hi.’ I flash a small smile. ‘Oh, I have a new phone. I’ll text you the number.’

‘Okay.’ She nods as I pass her, entering the kitchen and immediately getting into my apron.

Paul follows me in and takes up position behind the stove, lifting and tossing a pan full of onions. ‘You have a good evening?’ he asks. I detect genuine interest and look up to find an expression displaying indifference.

‘I did, thank you, Paul. You?’

‘Sure,’ he grunts as he slides two plates across the counter. ‘Tuna Crunches for table seven. Let’s have some service around here.’

I swing into action and grab the plates, bypassing Sylvie and Del on my way out, my boss remaining tight-lipped, my friend’s lips remaining pursed. ‘Tuna Crunches?’ I ask, sliding them onto the table.

‘Ta, darlin’,’ a pot-bellied man sings, all happy, almost dribbling as he pulls both plates towards him while licking his lips. His big mouth wraps straight around one corner and he looks up at me, smiling, soggy bread spilling from his chops. I grimace. ‘Fill this up, will ya?’ He pushes his coffee mug into my hand and my stomach turns when a lump of tuna slips past his lips and splatters on the floor at his feet. I follow his finger as it swoops down and mops it up. Then I watch with horror when he takes the half-chewed food and laps it off his pudgy finger with a tongue lathered in Paul’s secret recipe. I gag, my palm slapping across my mouth as I sprint across the bistro, thinking Miller would have a seizure if he witnessed the display of such caveman manners.

‘You okay?’ Sylvie asks with alarm as I fly towards her.

‘Refill. Table seven.’ I thrust the mug at her and dart past, trying desperately to stop the bile stirring. I clatter past tables, bump into chairs, and smack my shoulder into the wall as I round a corner. ‘Bollocks!’ I curse, way too loud and in front of a table of two old dears who are enjoying tea and cakes in the quieter part of the bistro. I wince and rub my arm, then turn to apologise.

And throw up all over them.

‘Goodness gracious!’ One old lady shoots up from her chair, rather fast for an old-timer. ‘Oh! Doris, your hat!’ She swats her friend’s head with a napkin, trying to brush away the lumps of vomit that I’ve sprayed all over the poor old lady. I swipe up a napkin and hold it over my mouth.

‘Oh, Edna, is it ruined?’ Her friend’s hand goes straight for her head and sinks into the sick-coated fur of her hat. I heave violently again.

‘I fear it might be. Oh what a shame! Don’t touch it!’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I splutter through the napkin, watching the two old biddies fussing over each other. I can feel eyes punching holes into me from everywhere, and a quick glimpse over my shoulder reveals a bistro full of silent observers. Even the filthy-mannered fatty who’s the cause of my vomiting episode is looking at me with disgust. ‘I . . .’ I can’t finish. Sweat has jumped onto my forehead and heat has jumped onto my cheeks. I’m mortified. And I feel terrible – sick, embarrassed and stupid. I let the corridor that leads to the ladies’ room swallow me up, and I flop over the sink, running the tap and splashing my face before rinsing my mouth. Looking up, I’m greeted by the reflection of a pale, meek-looking creature. Me. I feel rotten.

Which reminds me. Once I wash and dry my hands, I take my phone from my pocket and spend five minutes cringing down the line, explaining to my doctor’s receptionist why I need an emergency appointment. ‘Eleven?’ I ask, pulling my phone from my ear to see the time. My shift finishes at five. ‘Have you anything later?’ I try, already running over a plausible excuse for me to escape work for an hour or two. My shoulders sag when she gives me no other option, then points out hastily that I only have a seventy-two-hour window if the morning-after pill is going to work. Damn. ‘I’ll take eleven,’ I say, giving my name before hanging up.

‘Livy?’

Sylvie is peeking around the door. ‘Hey.’ I pop my phone back in my pocket and snatch a paper towel to dab at my wet face. ‘Am I fired?’

She smiles, her pink lips wide, and joins me by the sink. ‘Don’t be silly. Del’s worried about you.’

‘He shouldn’t be.’

‘Well, he is. And so am I.’

‘Neither of you should be worried about me. I’m fine.’ I turn back to the mirror, not prepared to suffer another lecture about my relationship with Miller.