I hurried up the steps of the Cloisters and through the hallway, almost tripping over Harlie Clarke, one of my charges, who was hoovering the carpet with furious resentment. A 29-year-old alcoholic, with a devotion to her appearance that almost counted as a second addiction, she looked great—up at six thirty every morning to do the full works—intricate contouring, lustrous lashes and long blonde hair, Airwrapped into sleek obedience.

Like nearly everyone, she’d come to the Cloisters convinced she was fine. But I’d chipped away until her shell of denial had shattered. Now she couldn’t not see that she was an alcoholic and she was raging.

‘Morning, Harlie,’ I said.

With a bile-filled glance, she drove the hoover towards my ankle. You know, she really had the most amazing eyebrows. Microbladed, of course, but very natural-looking. Undoubtedly done by an expert and not some chancer who’d learnt from YouTube. There were times when I itched for us to discuss beauty stuff.

But maybe not now. I skipped away before she maimed me.

In the meeting room, five of the seven therapists were at the table, plus three facilitators, Nurse Moze and Ted, our big boss—who glanced at his phone, shook his head and muttered, ‘Tut-tut.’

I mouthed, Sorry, slid into a chair and twisted my damp hair into a messy bun to get it off my face.

Moze was reading her report on the previous night. ‘Busy shift. Trassa Higgins—one of yours, Rachel? Didn’t sleep. Came down to the desk at about three a.m. We chatted, did a crossword, she went back to bed around five, but when I looked in at six, she was still awake.’

This told me that Trassa would be vulnerable today. Which was both good and bad. Bad because vulnerable meant, like, vulnerable. Not great in a 68-year-old grandmother addicted to gambling. But good in that she might be too exhausted to maintain her shield of denial. She’d been here for well over a week and was proving to be a tough nut to crack. Today might be the day.

‘Simon and Prissie,’ Moze said to a chorus of sighs around the table. ‘Yep. At it again. Waldemar caught them on his one a.m. check. Behind the sofa in the rec room, this time.’

‘So?’ Ted looked at me, then Carey-Jane, who were respectively Simon and Prissie’s assigned therapists. ‘What now?’

Full of regret, I shook my head. ‘Simon has to leave. He’s already had one warning. He’s not ready for recovery. He doesn’t care.’

‘I want Prissie to stay.’ Carey-Jane was just as resolute. ‘But we add sex and love to her list of addictions. All part of the bigger picture.’

‘But if Simon leaves and Prissie stays, what message does that send?’ Yasmine asked.

Ted shrugged. ‘Who cares? We make the rules.’