Considering there was a moment where I thought I might get fired, almost negotiating a pay rise isn’t a bad outcome. Perhaps I do have some sales skills remaining after all. Admittedly, I had to throw about the ‘poor me’ routine – but others have done far worse than that to gain a lot less. It’s true as well. Money after the separation will be an issue. One of many to add to the list of my current concerns.

There’s a couple of hours in the afternoon where I almost forget the whole waking-up-in-a-field-thing. I fire off a few emails to current clients that are friendly enough, making sure they’re happy and so on. It’s a potential minefield because, if there are problems, I’m opening myself to getting chapter and verse about it. I’d sacrifice that for being able to upgrade even one of them to a better package.

After that, I email Declan to ask if he has any further questions from our meeting yesterday – and then send a few cold emails to companies who I think might be interested in what we’re selling. I search for upcoming trade conferences and forward a couple of links to Graham, suggesting that I could represent the business there.

It’s all basic stuff – but it’s better than the motions I’ve been going through over the past few weeks.

It’s four o’clock when my phone buzzes with a text from Olivia.

At first I read it as ‘over-eating’ – which would be incredibly unlike her. I’ve worried plenty in the past over whether she could be bulimic or anorexic. There are so many stories about how hard it is for young people nowadays. It was bad enough when I was young, with the magazine photos of models and the like. But now, with social media and the way everyone’s life is shared, it’s so much worse for young people like Olivia. As it is, I don’t think she has had any actual eating disorder, it’s simply that she goes out of her way to keep herself slim. Nothing wrong with that, of course, if that’s her choice.

When I do get the correct meaning, it’s still out of character. Olivia isn’t usually one for apologising – and certainly not to me. Her motto seems to be, ‘Never apologise, never explain’. She’d make a good spy.

My thumbs feel fat as I struggle to tap out a reply. I press more than one letter at the same time and autocorrect is being as unhelpful as usual. I get there in the end.

She replies almost instantly:

I ask her why and she texts to say it’s because she wants to check out the places Tyler usually hangs around. She’s called and texted his friends but not all of them live within walking or public transport distance of where we live. I’m not naïve and suspect this is why she apologised in the first place – but it’s better than nothing. I also wonder if she asked her father first. Either way, I tell her I’ll pick her up after she’s finished work.

The rest of the afternoon passes with nothing in the way of new sales but little in the way of drama either. Graham does one of his tours of the office not long before leaving time, dishing out the usual array of backslaps and ‘how’s things?’ It’s his way of motivating, though I can’t believe it’s something he learned on one his of his weekend retreats. He lowers his voice when he gets to me, lingering for a little longer than usual as he asks if everything is all right. I tell him it is and then he replies that he’s ‘rooting for me’, before disappearing back to his office. Even though I can’t see her, I can feel Natasha glowering on the other side of the board between us and I can’t pretend that I don’t find it amusing.

As everyone’s leaving, I wait at my desk, saying I have a few things to finish up. I’m also showing Graham I’m trying to make up some hours even if, in reality, I’m trawling the news sites hoping there’s been an update on Tom Leonard.

It’s definitely becoming an obsession; a largely irrational one at that. As best I can tell, there is no news. That’s supposed to be good news – but it doesn’t feel like that. He’s been missing for three full days and I find myself searching for statistics about missing people. Somewhere around a quarter of a million people are reported missing each year. It feels so high, with almost half being under the age of twenty-one. Then I read that nearly all of those are found again and it feels like a false statistic. It’s still pain and worry for someone, though. Someone like Olivia. Someone like Tom Leonard’s family. I want to forget what happened – but the blood on my car had to have come from something.

The car park is empty when I get outside. I’m last to leave, so set the alarm on my way out and then make sure the door is latched into place when it clicks closed behind me. I’m always paranoid the alarm is going to have some sort of meltdown. Its screech will rip apart the local peace and I’ll panic as I try to reset it, only to make things worse by getting the code wrong and ending up locked out of the system.

Not this time.

It’s only a twenty-minute drive from home if the roads are clear. Roadworks can take that up to thirty or thirty-five but it could be worse.

I’m almost halfway home when I notice that the blue car behind me has been there for most of the journey. I’m not sure when it slotted in but it was there along the dual carriageway and it’s still there as I head along the link road towards North Melbury.

It’s not necessarily unusual – this is the main road back to the town – but there’s something about the way it’s keeping a steady distance that makes me edgy. It could be that simply being in a car sets my mind racing but it feels like more than that.

When I stop at a T-junction, the driver hangs back, not slotting in directly behind. When I pull away, he or she maintains the same gap between us. I don’t know the make but the car is a metallic navy hatchback with tinted windows. I find myself watching the mirror more than I’m looking through the windscreen, wondering if the driver will get closer.

There’s a four-way set of traffic lights at a spot where The Red Lion sits on the outskirts of town. The quickest way home is to continue straight, following the main road to the High Street and, beyond that, the sprawling estates where I live. It’s where most of the traffic would head. I’m at the front of the line, watching as the disjointed stream of cars pass across the junction. There’s a gap of at least a car’s length between me and the blue car behind and I spend the whole time checking my mirrors, wondering if the driver is going to edge forward.

When it remains at a distance and the light turns green, I make a quick decision, turning left without indicating and then fixating on my rear-view mirror as I pull away. I tell myself it’s nothing but the blue car follows, also without indicating. Aside from me, it’s the only other car to do so. I speed up, zipping past the row of houses onto the country roads that now seem so intimidating. There are more overhanging trees and overgrown bushes and I wonder what the council do with all the tax they collect. It’s certainly not employing someone with a hedge trimmer.

The blue car speeds up, too, maintaining a gap that means the driver can see me at almost all times. It’s only because of the twisty lanes that there are moments in which I can accelerate away, putting some distance between us.

I’m gripping the steering wheel so tightly that tiny flecks of rubber or leather are peeling away from the surface. The speed is beginning to scare me and so I try the opposite, slowing into the next series of S-bends and then remaining in a lower gear as I emerge onto a straight. The speed limit is sixty and I’m barely doing thirty. The blue car has quickly caught up. There’s room enough for the driver to overtake – except he or she doesn’t. The car’s speed has lowered to match mine and then the driver contently sits in a couple of car lengths behind.

From questioning whether I was imagining things, I’m now certain I’m being followed. I wonder if I could call the police via Bluetooth and give them the number plate. I can just about make it out in the mirror. But what if this is nothing? I’m some crazy woman – and the driver behind is on their way home? That follows calling the police for a break-in that probably wasn’t a break-in. I’ll get tagged as a time-waster, or a fantasist.

I take the next right turn, which is signposted for North Melbury. I remain under the speed limit, but it makes little difference because the blue car does the same. There’s mud on the road and I’m probably the only driver who has ever hoped a tractor would pull out and bobble along the road for a good few miles.

No such luck.

If the blue car genuinely is just someone on their way home, then it makes little sense for them to have come this way. I’ve looped around much of the town, skirting around the miles of farmland, before turning back. Whoever’s behind the wheel must be following me. But why? And who? Could it be youths messing around? I’ve read stories of kids driving around too fast, terrorising other drivers on these types of back lanes, but it’s always seemed a bit fanciful, or exaggerated.

There’s one final T-junction and I stop precisely as I should. The blue car behind leaves its now familiar gap and so I wait. I don’t indicate, simply sitting and pausing for something to happen. Perhaps another car will pass and I can tag onto the back of that until I’m back in a populated area. If not that, maybe someone will get out of the car behind and I can speed away. I wait – and continue waiting as nothing happens. Either the driver behind is the most patient person on earth, or they really are following me.

I risk a glance away from the mirror to look at the dashboard clock. It’s a few minutes before six and three full minutes pass with nothing happening. I have visions of being here in an hour’s time, or later when it’s dark. Of a queue of traffic building up behind us as people at the back wonder who the lunatic is at the front.

There’s nothing else for it. I shift the car into gear, turn right and put my foot down. The hedges and trees fizz past, blurring into one long stream of green. I’m a few hundred metres along the road when I check my mirror and see that the blue car has turned left. I squint into the mirror, leaning towards it as if that will give me a better view of something happening so far behind. It doesn’t of course, but when my eyes flick back to the road, I realise I’ve drifted into the centre, straddling the white line. There’s a car in the distance and I swerve violently back onto my own side. There’s a howl of complaining tyres, a terrifying screech of machine overpowering man. The back wheels spin as the front wheels lock and by the time I pull the wheel back in the other direction, it’s already too late. The car groans as it lurches into a spin. I think there’s a moment where I take my hands from the wheel, possibly close my eyes, definitely scream. I don’t know for sure because everything happens at once.

There’s a lightning flash of leaves and tarmac, a bone-creaking thump and then, somehow, the road is directly in front of me once more. I’m at a stop as the approaching vehicle thunders past with a lingering beep of the horn.

I barely notice.

I’m not sure if the car spun in a complete circle or if I imagined the whole thing. My blouse is clinging to my arms, small pools of sweat discolouring the cream. I’m out of breath and that pain is back in my chest once more. I pinch the loose skin on the back of my hand to make sure I’m awake. To know this definitely happened. There’s no sign of a blue car in my rear-view mirror and the other vehicle that was coming towards me has already disappeared into the distance. Was the blue car ever there?

It’s only me on the road and, as I pinch myself once more, I can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with me.