A stocky 6footer with a substantial beer-gut, I noticed him jogging past my front window one evening a few weeks later in what looked like a brand new running kit. The same thing happened the next evening, and then again the evening after, and as I stood motionless and bemused at my kitchen window, I suddenly realised this was a ruse. A fitness regime that allowed him time alone outside the house every day, with the chance of a fleeting glimpse of me. Pretty soon, he started sending texts to warn me of his imminent arrival on my street “be there in five, give us a wave gorgeous.” I was confused and unsure of how to deal with his unwanted attention, so when I started coming home to find bunches of flowers, chocolates, and bottles of wine or perfume waiting for me, things started turning inexplicably darker.

I was in turmoil. I texted him daily, threatening to tell Nicola about his antics, making clear that his affections were definitely not welcome; he’d shrug it off and tell me how we could run away to Italy together (where he went away on business occasionally) and start a new life. His campaign had really ramped up by the summer; there’d be text messages that commented on how nice my hair looked that day (when had he seen me? Where had I been?), or a grilling about the identity of a man he’d seen me walking down the street with earlier that day (‘don’t like the look of him.’) My parents couldn’t understand why I didn’t just tell Nicola the truth, but our friendship meant so much to me, that I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. His deceit would have torn her world apart, broken her heart, wrecked her life, and all I could think of was that she would pin all the blame on me.

So the weeks turned to months, and the months to over a year, and the barrage of messages and attention was unwavering. I carried on as normal with Nicola, popping into her salon every few days for a cup of tea and a gas about the usual stuff (the new Céline collection we’d been coveting, whether so-and-so had been using Botox) and booking myself in for the monthly trim. We continued taking holidays together to beautiful European cities and my guts churned each time his name popped up on her phone (a few minutes later, his name would appear on mine, with a sleazy, inappropriate message, ‘for your eyes only’ – which I would ignore.) I’d blocked him from all my social media, until he mentioned that Nicola had passed comment on how I wasn’t commenting on any of his Instagram feed anymore – “she’s getting suspicious – can you unblock me so things look normal please?” When I failed to adhere to his demands I would be met with seemingly endless texts about how awful his life was, how unhappy he was with Nicola, how resentful he was of financially supporting her family, and how I was his escape clause. His hopes for a lifetime of happiness were apparently all pinned on me. He’d started following my ex-boyfriend on social media, scrutinising the way he dressed (until he also blocked him.) The tracksuits disappeared, the Vision Express glasses were jettisoned and soon he was swanning about in top-to-toe Acne and a pair of tortoise shell Oliver Peoples. It was both tragic, and nauseating.

It’s hard to express the myriad of emotions you feel when you know that someone is watching you. Harder still, to feel petrified that the trauma you are going through could potentially ruin the life of a friend you love dearly. Keeping the whole thing a secret from all our mutual friends was really taking its toll on me. My periods had stopped by this point, and I was using Melatonin every night to try and get some sleep. Every time I saw a silver BMW my heart would stop. I’d always flinch with sheer panic (and still do).

She was my only concern. I’ve no idea why I didn’t think to put myself first. I still look back on that time to try and fathom why my own sanity felt less important than her happiness. But then I am a loyal friend, and with every day that passed I guess I expected he would wake up and realise what he was doing was immoral, and that he’d stop of his own accord – but he didn’t. It was a text calling me a liar that finally flipped the switch in my brain. Away on business in London, he’d sent a message to say I obviously ‘couldn’t have been doing any real work’, because I’d posted a shot on Instagram of an art exhibition. I lost it. He had started to control the way I lived my life.