I’d expected Bronte’s daughter to be a fey, fine-boned blonde but instead she had lots of thick, russet hair, barely contained by a knitted utility hat. Her face was long and thin with prominent teeth but she was gorgeous, with fresh bouncy skin and glowing eyes.

Eden greeted me by bellowing, ‘Today must be all about Freya.’

‘Excuse me?’ Cheeky fecker, telling me how to run my sessions.

‘I can be here whenever you command. But as Freya is visiting for just one day, she must have the floor.’

‘We’ll see.’ I gave him a thin smile and turned my attention to his daughter.

Emotionally, she was all over the place, smiling non-stop while on the verge of tears. The poor little thing, she was only eighteen.

‘Rachel.’ Gingerly, she double-kissed me, as if we were meeting socially. ‘We’re so grateful for your help with Mumma.’ She plucked at my sleeve. ‘Your jumpsuit is heaven.’

She flashed an anxious grin while tears made tracks down her face. From the pocket of her chocolate-coloured twill trousers, she pulled out an actual cotton handkerchief and used it to dab her eyes.

I have to say, her look was mesmerizing. On her long, narrow feet was a pair of dark brogues polished to a high shine. A glimpse of a vest in vivid green appeared under a boxy-shouldered serge jacket, topped off with a crossbody satchel which looked like a family heirloom. She could have come straight from the Margaret Howell catwalk or from the All You Can Wear for a Tenner from her local Oxfam.

‘Jumble?’ Bronte asked, faintly, at the sight of her daughter. ‘Oh! It’s really you!’

‘Mumma!’ Freya and Bronte fell into each other’s arms, Eden hovering behind them.

‘I’m so sorry you’re in this place,’ Freya said.

‘Jumble, no.’ Bronte was dotting Freya’s face with little kisses. ‘Please don’t fret. They’re all terribly nice. But…how are you here? Have you left San Francisco?’

‘Just for today. I fly back tomorrow.’

‘You’ve come for one day? Because of me?’

‘Yes!’

Then they were both laughing and crying into each other’s faces.

All of the others were gripped.

Freya said to Dennis, ‘May I?’ And indicated his chair, which was beside Bronte’s.

‘You certainly may.’ He hopped up and crossed the room to sit next to a stony-faced Eden. Nervously, he gave him a nod and muttered, ‘Grand day for it.’

Freya was stroking Bronte’s hand and Bronte was smoothing Freya’s hair—literally grooming each other. They needed to be separated if I was to get any sense out of Freya, so Dennis was despatched back to his original seat.

When everyone had settled, I began. ‘Freya, you were thirteen when your mum went to rehab for the first time. What was it like growing up with an addict parent?’