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As the taxi pulls up outside my house, my left side is in so much pain that I can barely coordinate my arms and legs to get out of the car. The driver does offer to help, but I manage to shake out a slurred: ‘NO! I DO!’

The last thing I want is to be carried to my house by a stranger who thinks I’m too drunk to walk.

I manage to get out of the cab using my cane for support, but the moment the taxi drives out of view I resort to crawling.

If you think crawling over your doorstep with blurred vision is undignified, try doing it in a tight dress, hat and high heels.

The door key is a problem, but I manage it and crawl into the kitchen, where I pull hot water bottles from a drawer and look up at the kettle. Then I remember the scars between my fingers and think better of it. Boiling water is a bad idea when you can’t co-ordinate your hands. Hot tap water is safer.

I fill three miserably tepid water bottles, shouting ‘ow!’ a lot and grinding a good few layers off my teeth in the process. I can’t face crawling upstairs for pyjamas, so I collapse in my dress on the living room sofa, warm water bottles in strategic places and phone on my chest.

The pain eases a little. This is heartening. It means this is a pseudo relapse, rather than a full-on brain-scarring, three-weeks-sick ordeal. All that stuff with Chris was stressful. God. Even thinking about it gives me burning flashes down my arms.

Okay.

Right.

I need to check in with Little Voice before my vision gets so blurred I can’t see. My phone tells me I have many messages and missed calls, which triggers a stress response. Then I see most of the messages are from Marcus, Ahmet and Freddy. One message from Marcus, five from Ahmet and twenty missed calls from Freddy. Why has Freddy called me twenty times? Has something happened at the office?

I call him back.

‘Freddy? Is everything okay?’ My voice sounds better. Only minorly slurred, even though parts of my body are shaking like a tumble drier.

‘Kat! Thank God.’ Freddy sounds genuinely concerned. ‘Where are you? Did you get home okay?’

‘Ye-es. No … need worry about me.’

‘Why are you talking like a racist 1950s Disney character?’

‘Voice tremors. Can’t talk well. But fine.’ I am both lying and glad this isn’t a video call. Weighed down by tepid water bottles, starving hungry, with my hat still pinned to my head, I am not fine. But I have also been worse.

‘Look, I’d better go. I need to –’ I gasp in pain as I accidentally jolt my left arm. ‘–check with the office. Make sure they haven’t burned the place down.’

‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘That noise you just made?’

‘Nothing. I’m fine. I go now.’

‘You sound like you’re in pain. Look, don’t try to move, okay? I’ll be there soon.’

‘DO NOT COME HERE, FREDDY STARK!’

There’s a pause, then a long sigh. ‘Okay Kat, well at least let me check in with your team.’

I reach for a hat pin. ‘Ok-ay.’

‘What?’

‘YES! CHECK TEAM HAVEN’T STARTED FIRE!’ I pull pins free, and my hat falls to the floor.

‘I will,’ says Freddy. ‘You don’t need to worry about any of that, okay? You just … rest.’

The phone goes dead and weirdly, warm relief floods over my body. For all his downsides, Freddy is competent. Capable. He will make sure my team are okay, while I work out how to get myself pyjamas and painkillers and a good book.

I try to move.