‘I saw the link to the autism charity auction is live,’ Alice said suddenly. ‘Thank you. You’re a good friend, Julia Frey-Jackson.’

Jules waved her thanks away. Her fund’s charity department was constantly looking for new causes to champion, ideally ahead of their rivals. Besides, Jules suspected she’d spent most of her university days and working hours surrounded by high-functioning autistic men; they were excellent at their jobs, technically able and highly focused. It only took her an evening to set up the charity auction and their clients were more than happy to contribute lots; private dining experiences and boxes at the O2. It was something extra to add to their Corporate Social Responsibility reports, after all. Since Jules had arranged it and not the fund, they could apply match-funding, doubling whatever was raised.

‘It went live at 9 a.m. and last time I checked the bids were already over £5,000,’ Alice was telling Nina.

Jules reached into her bag, retrieving her phone, hoping they were by now at least forty minutes nearer to Paris, and felt disbelief that only fourteen minutes had passed since she’d put it into her bag. How could time be moving so slowly? She wanted to be safely in Paris. Safely back in a city where she knew who she was, with her oldest friends. She craved just a few days in that Paris bubble. It would restore her to herself, the old Jules. It would stop her making so many mistakes. She knew that’s what Paul was hoping for too.

Notifications were listed in groups on her phone screen, as was usual. But one stood out from the rest. Paul. Her fingers began to tremble. She had to fight to keep the small, glistening squares of almond and rose pastry in her stomach. She was grateful Nina and Alice were now locked in a discussion about the mums at school, because they didn’t notice the sweat accumulating around her hairline, didn’t see the red-hot waves of fear emanating from her face.

She opened the text and bit hard on her tongue to stop herself from crying out. It was worse than she feared. A single line, but enough for her to know that her life, as she knew it, was over:

‘You did it again, didn’t you?’

*

Alice

‘I know it’s basic, but it’s such a time-saver.’ Alice cringed at herself even as she spoke, waves of shame washing over her as the train sped towards Paris. What had she been thinking? She wasn’t even sure what being basic meant, or if she was using it in the right context, it just came out. Was it basic to buy three pairs of jeans in the exact same cut because they fitted you perfectly? Hiding your muffin top and lifting up your bottom? More than ever, she felt like the frumpy old mum next to her more glamorous counterparts. Nina, as usual, looked impossibly chic in that subtle, fresh-faced French way she had inherited. Her dark hair was bobbed with a tousled fringe, and she had a pale pink scarf knotted through it. When did they both start getting Botox? She’d assumed their bright-eyed looks were to do with the absence of little people in their lives waking at all hours, but now she felt cheated. Why hadn’t they included her? Or told her about this Dr Maryam? How had it happened that their go-to place was Dr M and her go-to place was a trampoline park?