I mean, OK, I’m still in dark glasses. And I can’t look at anyone. And my hands are doing weird twisty things in my lap. But I’m here. That’s the point.

‘So you dumped Frank off your team,’ I say as we sit down, and immediately regret it in case it sounds aggressive.

But Linus doesn’t look offended. He looks worried. ‘Frank doesn’t blame me,’ he says quickly, and I realize they must have had a conversation about this. ‘I mean, he wouldn’t expect us all to give up playing LOC just because he’s had to. He said he’d do the same if it was him.’

‘So who’s the fourth?’

‘This guy Matt,’ says Linus without enthusiasm. ‘He’s OK.’

‘Dad made Frank play bass with him in the garage,’ I tell him. ‘He thinks that’s a better interest.’

‘Does Frank play bass?’

‘Barely.’ I snuffle with laughter. ‘He plays, like, three chords and Dad does ten-minute solos.’

‘You think that’s bad? My dad plays the recorder.’

‘He what?’ My laughter dies away. ‘Seriously?’

‘You can’t tell anyone.’ Linus looks suddenly vulnerable, and I feel a wave of . . . something. Something strong and warm. Like when you put your arm round someone and squeeze.

‘I won’t tell. I promise.’ I take a sip of Frappuccino. ‘Like, the kind of recorder kids play?’

‘A grown-up kind. Wooden. Big.’ He demonstrates.

‘Wow. I didn’t know that existed.’

We sip our drinks and smile at each other. Thoughts are racing through my head; crazy thoughts like I’ve made it! I’m in Starbucks! Go me! But there are other weird, random thoughts popping up, like Everyone’s looking at me and I hate myself. And then, suddenly, I wish I was at home right now, which is just weird. I do not wish I was at home. I’m out with Linus! In Starbucks!

‘So what do you want to ask me on your documentary?’ he says.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Stuff.’

‘Is this part of your therapy?’

‘Yes. Kind of.’

‘But do you still need therapy? I mean, you look fine.’

‘Well, I am fine. It’s just this project . . .’

‘If you just took off your dark glasses you’d be, like, totally back to normal. You should do that,’ Linus says with enthusiasm. ‘You know, just do it.’

‘I will.’

‘But you shouldn’t wait. You should do it, right here, right now.’

‘Yes. Maybe.’

‘Shall I do it?’ He reaches over and I recoil.

My bravado is melting away. His voice feels hectoring, like he’s giving me an interrogation.

I don’t know what’s happened in my head. Things have turned. I take a sip of Frappuccino, trying to relax, but all I really want to do is grab a napkin and shred it into little bits. The voices around me are getting louder and louder; more and more threatening.

At the counter, someone’s complaining about a cold coffee, and I find myself tuning in to the only side of the argument that I can hear.

‘Complained three times . . . don’t want a free coffee . . . not good enough! Just not good enough!’

The angry voice is like a chisel in my brain. It’s making me flinch and close my eyes and want to flee. I’m starting to panic. My chest is rising and falling. I can’t stay. I can’t do this. Dr Sarah’s wrong. I’m never going to get better. Look, I can’t even sit in Starbucks. I’m a total failure.

And now darker thoughts are circling my head, dragging me down. I should just hide away. I shouldn’t even exist. What’s the point of me, anyway?

‘Audrey?’ Linus waves a hand in front of my face, which makes me flinch even more. ‘Audrey?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I gulp, and push my chair back. I have to escape.

‘What?’ Linus stares at me, bewildered.

‘I can’t stay.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s just . . . too loud. Too much.’ I put my hands over my ears. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry . . .’

I’m already at the door. I push it open and feel some small relief as I make it outside. But I’m not safe. I’m not home.

‘But you were fine.’ Linus has followed me out. He sounds almost angry. ‘You were fine just now! We were chatting and we were laughing . . .’

‘I know.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Nothing,’ I say desperately. ‘I don’t know. It makes no sense.’

‘So, just tell yourself to snap out of it. You know, mind over matter.’

‘I’ve tried!’ Angry tears rise in my eyes. ‘Don’t you think I’ve tried snapping out of it?’

My head is a whirling mass of distress signals. I have to go. Now. I never hail taxis, ever, but right now I don’t even think twice. I stick my hand out and a black cab comes trundling by. Tears are filling my eyes as I get in – not that anyone can see them.

‘Sorry,’ I say to Linus, my voice a little thick. ‘I really am. So. We should forget the film and everything. So. I won’t see you, I guess. Bye. Sorry. Sorry.’

At home I lie in my bed, totally still, totally silent, with the curtains drawn and earplugs in. For about three hours. I don’t move a muscle. Sometimes I feel as if I’m a phone, and this is the only way I can recharge. Dr Sarah says my body is on an adrenalin roller coaster, and that’s why I lurch from totally wired to totally fatigued, with nothing in between.

At last, feeling wobbly, I head downstairs for something to eat. I write a text to Dr Sarah – I went to Starbucks but I had a meltdown – and send it off. The dark, ill thoughts have gone, but they’ve left me feeling weak and jittery.

I drift into the kitchen, and wince as I pass my reflection in the mirror. I look pale and kind of . . . I don’t know. Shrunken. It’s like the flu. It attacks you and your whole body takes the hit. I’m just considering whether to make a Nutella sandwich or a cheese one when I hear a rattling sound from the hall, and something dropping onto the mat, and I jump a mile.

For a moment there’s silence. I’ve tensed up all over like an animal in a trap, but I tell myself firmly, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, and my heart rate slowly drops, and at last I wander out to see what it is.

It’s a note, on the doormat – a piece of lined paper torn out of a notebook with Audrey written in Linus’s handwriting. I open it to see:

Are you OK? I texted but you didn’t reply. Frank didn’t reply either. I didn’t want to ring the doorbell and shock you. Are you OK??

I haven’t even looked at my phone since I texted Dr Sarah. And Frank’s at the garden show, in the countryside. He probably hasn’t got any signal. I imagine Frank, grimly tramping around some field, and raise a faint smile. He’ll be in such a bad mood.

Through the ripply glass of the front door I suddenly notice a kind of shadowy movement, and my heart catches. Oh God. Is that Linus, there? Is he waiting? For what?

I reach for a pen, and think for a moment.

I’m fine, thank you. Sorry I freaked out.

I push it back through the letter box. It’s a bit difficult because there’s a spring, but I manage it. A moment later, it reappears.

You looked really bad. I was worried.

I stare at his words, my heart falling like a stone. Really bad. I looked really bad. I ruin everything.

Sorry.

Somehow I can’t find anything to put except that one word, so I write it again.

Sorry. Sorry.

And I post the letter back through the letter box. Almost at once the page is pushed back with his reply:

No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. In Starbucks, what were you thinking?

I wasn’t expecting that. For a few moments I don’t move. I’m hunched on the doormat, thoughts running through my head like ticker tape. Do I answer? What do I answer?

Do I want to tell him what I was thinking?

The voice of that therapist from St John’s keeps running through my head; the one who used to take the ‘Self Assertion’ workshop. We do not have to reveal ourselves. She used to say it every week. We are all entitled to privacy. You do not have to share anything with others, however much they may ask you. Photos, fantasies, plans for the weekend . . . they’re yours. She used to look around the room almost sternly. You do NOT have to share them.