While I’m waiting for the police to arrive, I sit in the kitchen picking fragments of broken glass from my foot. Once I’m sure I have all the tiny pieces out, I wash and bandage it up, barely registering the pain. In fact, it’s almost a welcome distraction. Why would someone throw a brick through my window? Why is all this crap happening to me? I know why. This is trial by media: I’m guilty until proven innocent. To the general public I’m a child snatcher, regardless of what I have or haven’t done.

The doorbell rings. Is it my imagination, or does it sound louder than usual? The echoing chime reverberates through my body, setting my teeth on edge. I limp down the hallway to the front door, hesitating. What if it’s not the police?

‘Hello?’ A male voice from outside. ‘Tessa Markham? It’s the police. You called us earlier.’

I open the door to two uniformed officers. I thought they might have sent Chibuzo and Marshall. I don’t recognise these guys. They’re young. Younger than me. Behind them, on the pavement, the press are almost well-behaved. There are fewer of them at this time of night, or should I say, morning. No jostling and shouting out to me while the police are here. A few flashes from their cameras and that’s it.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I say to the officers, pulling my dressing gown more tightly around my body. ‘Come in.’

They step inside and I lead them to the kitchen, where they take my statement. Once they’ve heard what happened, they ask to see the bedroom window, so we go upstairs.

‘The journalists out there,’ I say. ‘Did they see anything?’

The dark-haired officer replies. ‘According to them, a person on a motorbike rode past, slowed down and threw the brick, then sped up and rode off.’

‘Did they get a licence number?’

The officer shakes his head. ‘Sounds like the plates were purposely smeared with dirt. A couple of the photographers got off some shots, but they were all out of focus. Too busy watching your house.’

Typical – a bunch of press hounds camped outside, hoping to get a shot of an innocent woman, and when the real crime happens, they’re too slow to react.

‘We’ve got an alert out for the vehicle,’ he continues. ‘And we’ll take full statements from everyone out there after we’ve made sure you’re okay.’

Stepping into the chilly room with its flapping curtains, glass everywhere and that cold red brick on the bed, I feel violated, even worse than when it actually happened. Maybe because I was half-asleep before. Maybe because I’ve now had time for it to properly sink in.

‘Do you have any idea who it might have been?’ the fair-haired officer asks.

‘No.’

‘Anyone you’ve been in an argument with recently? Or someone who might have a grudge against you?’

The other officer nudges his colleague, but the fair-haired officer doesn’t seem to know who I am. Maybe he doesn’t watch the news.

‘The media have decided I’m some kind of child abductor,’ I say. ‘Whoever sent this brick obviously agrees with them.’

The fair-haired officer flushes. ‘Ah, yes, of course. Sorry.’

So he has heard of me then. ‘It’s all a load of made-up nonsense,’ I say. ‘Your lot don’t seem to think I’m guilty, but since when has the truth mattered when there’s a story to sell?’

‘You’ll want to get that boarded up,’ the dark-haired officer advises. ‘You on your own here?’

I nod and chew the inside of my lip. ‘Yes, I’m on my own.’

‘Got any chipboard?’ he asks.

‘I… er, I don’t know. If there is any, it’ll be in the garden shed.’

‘Right, come on, show me the shed. I’m sure we can find something and I’ll board it up for you. Won’t take five minutes. My old man’s a chippy, taught me everything I know.’ He gives me a wink, and I’m pathetically grateful. ‘I’m PC Dave Cavendish, by the way,’ he says. ‘And this useless article is PC James Lewis.’

PC Lewis flushes once again. I give him an encouraging smile.

Downstairs, I slip on a pair of old Crocs, and Dave and I head out across the soaking grass to the dilapidated shed at the bottom of the garden while his colleague waits in the kitchen. I unlock the shed and it takes him around twenty seconds to find what he needs – an old kitchen cabinet with chipboard backing, and a staple gun.

Ten minutes later, my bedroom window is boarded up, the glass all swept away and my bed stripped and changed.

‘This can’t be part of your job description,’ I say. ‘Won’t you get in trouble?’

‘It’s a quiet night,’ he says with a smile. ‘You’ll need a glazier to fix it properly, but this will do as a temporary measure.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I reply.

‘Your foot…’ he continues.

‘I stupidly stood on some of that smashed glass.’

‘You wanna get that looked at properly. Don’t want it getting infected.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, knowing I probably won’t do anything about it. ‘Do you think you’ll catch whoever did it?’

‘Truthfully, it’s doubtful. But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think they’ll come back. Probably just some idiot who thinks they know better than the police. Call us if you have any more problems.’ He jerks his head towards the street. ‘That lot out there giving you much grief?’

I shrug – I don’t have the energy to tell him they’re making my life a misery.

‘We’ll have a word on our way out, warn them to behave themselves.’

Once the officers have gone, I hobble back up to my bedroom. It all looks fairly normal in here now. With the curtains drawn, I can’t even see the board across the window. But the air is cold and damp. Tainted. I know I won’t be able to climb back into bed and close my eyes as though nothing has happened. How can I fall asleep in here knowing there’s someone out there who hates me enough to do something like this?

I scoop up my alarm clock and duvet and leave the bedroom, closing the door behind me. It hardly seems worth going to bed just for an hour and a half, but what else am I going to do? I realise I don’t like spending time in my house any more, even without all the press hanging around. Actually, I haven’t enjoyed being here since Scott left. It’s a house of memories. Lifeless. I’m not sure if it has given up entirely, or if it’s waiting for something.

I wander along the short landing to the back bedroom: Sam’s bedroom. I step inside and inhale the stale air, foolishly hoping to catch a remnant of his scent. But there’s no trace of my little boy. I place my alarm clock on his low nightstand and lie down on the bare mattress of his toddler bed, curling up in the foetal position and pulling my king-size duvet around me. It’s only when I huddle under the covers that I realise how cold I am. My duvet is still freezing to the touch and I wish I had a hot-water bottle or an electric blanket… a warm body to spoon with, to press my icy toes against.

Eventually, I manage to fall into an uneasy slumber shortly before my alarm goes off. I wake disorientated, and then I remember last night. Right on cue, my foot starts to throb. I ignore it and uncurl myself, stretch out the kinks in my back and stand up. After throwing on my work clothes, I hobble downstairs and peer through the lounge blinds into the dim, cloudy morning. Oh joy. My fan club is back in force. There are more of them here than ever. Word must have spread about the brick thrower – I’ll need to order a taxi to work.

As I munch on cornflakes and water again, I berate myself for calling Scott last night. It’s humiliating to remember how I pleaded with him to come over. He’s already made it crystal clear that he has more important things to worry about now. He’s hardened his heart towards me. This Ellie woman is going to be a permanent fixture. I can just about deal with her, but I’m not sure how I’ll be able to handle the rest of it – Scott having a new family. Even thinking about it twists my guts and leaves me short of breath. In my mind I see this faceless woman bending over her newborn while Scott looks on adoringly. Stop thinking about it.

I gaze at Sam’s and Harry’s drawings stuck to my fridge, the sweet, childish images lifting my heart a little.

I should probably check the news to see what lies they’re spreading about me this morning, but I can’t face it, and besides, I don’t have time. A car horn sounds out the front: my taxi’s here. I dump my cereal bowl in the sink, snatch up my handbag and head towards the front door with not quite as much terror as I felt yesterday.

I run the gauntlet once again. Bulbs flash and questions are hurled. Same as yesterday. Thankfully, I only have to endure it for a few seconds, limping down the path and elbowing my way across the pavement until I enter the blissful calm of the taxi.

---

Work is my sanctuary. A haven. Even with the occasional gawping customer, I feel safe here, I have a purpose. The morning passes at a steady pace. I begin by sweeping the pathways, then continue with my veg planting in the greenhouse. I haven’t caught sight of Ben yet. He must still be at the bank. I hope his meeting goes well. I realise that I’m coming round to his proposal more and more. Maybe this extra responsibility is what I need to pull me out of my half-life and into something more real. But I can’t decide anything while I have all this stuff going on. If only the police would solve the mystery of who Harry is and where he belongs. When they clear my name once and for all, maybe things can start getting back to normal.

‘Tessa.’ I glance up from my seed packets to see Carolyn standing at the greenhouse door, fluffing out her short mousy hair with her fingertips. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

No. Go away. I don’t want a visitor. ‘Hi, Carolyn.’ I manage a smile. ‘A visitor?’

‘She says she’s a friend.’

‘Who is it? Do you know?’ I put down my trowel and wipe my hands on my apron. ‘It might be one of the press pretending to be a friend.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t ask.’

In my head, I curse her for being so dumb, although I guess that’s unfair of me. It’s not her fault.

‘She’s in the café,’ Carolyn adds. ‘I’d better get back to the shop.’

‘Okay, thanks. I’ll be there in a mo.’

Carolyn turns and walks briskly back the way she came. I sigh and leave the greenhouse, limping behind her. I don’t have a good feeling about whoever is out there waiting for me.