I’ve been in two minds about telling this story. Being a writer can be a revealing thing; inevitably, parts of your own life bleed into your work. But the benefit of writing fiction is that you can change the context so that details aren’t recognisable any more. You can keep your true stories to yourself.

So the temptation to write something less vulnerable here has been ... strong. But deep down, I know I need to do it, both for you and for me.

You see, someone is stalked in my new book, and 13 years ago, it happened to me.

I was a young singer-songwriter living in London, and one night, as I was headed into a party, a man who’d been talking to me outside grabbed my arm before I could close the door. I’d been polite but was done, so I gave him a copy of my CD so he’d have to let go. In hindsight, that was my first big mistake: now he knew my name.

It started in seemingly benign ways: random Skype calls and DMs from him talking about my lyrics. I started running into him on my way home from work. I told myself maybe he lived nearby.

Then he started turning up closer to my house. When I saw him, I’d cross the street or try to walk by. Once he grabbed me and tried to make me dance with him, and when I refused, he said, “If you don’t let me lead you in the dance, how do you know what the marriage will be like?” As I walked away, he angrily reeled off facts about me, from my middle name to what school I’d attended, my parents’ postal address and what I’d said in interviews.

For women, it feels as if there’s an invisible line: on one side, if you say something too soon, you risk being seen as melodramatic.

PIP DRYSDALE

If a friend had confided this, I’d have encouraged them to report it immediately. But when it was happening to me, it didn’t seem that simple. What if they thought I was making too much of a fuss? Or looking for attention? Because particularly for women, it feels as if there’s an invisible line: on one side, if you say something too soon, you risk being seen as melodramatic. On the other side, you’re blamed for not asking for help earlier. Either way you’re doing it wrong; as the victim you’re being judged and graded. But the punchline is that nobody can tell you exactly where that line is.

So I did nothing. I rationalised it away, and told myself he was harmless — if misguided — and would eventually get bored. Besides, what if I went to the police and it somehow inflamed him? So it continued.