We sit in near-stationary traffic on Norwood Road for half an hour, inching forward in Graham’s car. He’s an impatient driver, jerking the car into any available space he sees, and leaning on his horn if the car in front dares wait more than a split second before moving forward at the lights. It’s the second day running that Graham has driven me home, and we’ve run out of conversation, exhausting our usual topics about whether the old video shop will go for the asking price, and how there are never enough split-level offices to keep up with demand, and so we sit in silence.

Every now and then I say sorry again for taking Graham so far out of his way, and he dismisses my apology.

‘Can’t have you wandering around London with some pervert after you,’ he says.

Fleetingly it occurs to me that I’ve never been specific about the nature of the attacks on other women in London, then I realise it’s a natural assumption to make about a man who stalks women.

I know I could ask Matt to pick me up, and that he would insist on driving me between work and home for as long as I needed him to. I don’t ask because Simon would hate it, and Matt would like it too much.

The fact that Matt still loves me is the unspoken truth that circles between us all. Between me and Matt, when we see each other to talk about the children, and he holds my gaze for a fraction longer than he needs to. Between me and Simon, when I mention Matt’s name, and see the hard flash of jealousy in Simon’s eyes.

Simon can’t take me. He sold his car a few weeks ago. At the time I thought he was mad; he might not have used it much during the week, but our weekends were full of supermarket shops and trips to Ikea, or heading out of town to see friends and family.

‘We can take the train,’ he told me, when I suggested we’d miss having a car. It never once crossed my mind he couldn’t afford to keep one.

I wish I had a driving licence. There never seemed to be a need for it, living in London, but now I wish I could drive myself to work. Ever since I found out about the adverts I’ve been on high alert; every nerve-ending tingling, waiting for the time I will need to run. Or fight. I look everywhere; watch everyone.

It feels safe here, in Graham’s car, where I know no one is following me, and I can lean into the soft leather and shut my eyes without worrying I’m being watched.

The traffic begins to move freely again once we’re over the river. The heating is on and I feel warm and relaxed for the first time in days. Graham puts the radio on and I listen to Capital FM’s Greg Burns interview Art Garfunkel. The strains of ‘Mrs Robinson’ play over their closing remarks, and I think how funny it is that I still remember all the words, but before I can shape them in my mind, I’m falling asleep.

I slide in and out of consciousness as we drive. The traffic noise changes constantly and I’m pulled awake, only to drift off again moments later. I hear the start of a new song on the radio; shut my eyes for what seems like a split second, then wake to the closing refrain of a different track entirely.

My subconscious confuses the sounds that push their way into my sleep; the buses, the music, the radio adverts. The car’s engine becomes the dull rumble of an Underground train; the presenter’s voice an announcer telling me to mind the gap. I’m standing on the Tube, commuters packed in beside me; the smell of aftershave and sweat in the air. The aftershave is familiar and I try to place it, but it eludes me.

Eyes, everywhere. Watching me. Following me. Knowing every step of my journey. The train stops and I try to get off, but someone’s pushing against me, forcing me against the wall of the carriage.

It’s Luke Friedland. He’s pressing hard against my chest. I rescued you, he’s saying, and I try to shake my head; try to move. The smell of aftershave is overpowering; it fills my nostrils and chokes me.

My eyes are closed.

Why are my eyes closed?

I open them, but the man pressed against me isn’t Luke Friedland.

I’m not on a train; not surrounded by commuters.

I’m in Graham Hallow’s car.

It’s Graham with his face next to mine, his arm across me, pressing me into my seat. It’s Graham I can smell; that woody, cinnamon fragrance mixed with body odour and the musty scent of his tweed jacket.

‘Where are we? Get off me!’

The pressure on my chest disappears but I’m still fighting for breath; panic filling my throat as surely as though there were two hands around it. Darkness surrounds the car and seeps in through the windows, and I fumble for the door handle.

The light makes me blink.

‘I was undoing your seat belt,’ Graham says. He sounds angry; defensive.

Because I accused him?

Or because I stopped him?

‘You fell asleep.’

I look down and see my seat belt has been unclipped, the strap hanging over my left arm. I realise we are parked in my street: I can see the front door of our house.

Colour floods my face. ‘I – I’m sorry.’ Sleep has left me confused. ‘I thought …’ I try and form the words, ‘I thought you were …’ I can’t say it, but I don’t need to. Graham turns the ignition key, the roar of the engine putting a full stop to our conversation. I get out of the car and shiver; the temperature fifteen degrees lower than inside. ‘Thank you for the lift. And I’m sorry I thought—’

He drives off, leaving me standing on the pavement.