‘All of it,’ he said thickly. ‘Leaving Danielle.’ His first wife. ‘She was devastated…and I didn’t care, because I thought I loved Ingrid.’ His third wife. (Yes, he’d somehow managed to slot in an extra wife between his first wife and the woman he’d left her for. Giles was full of plot twists.) ‘And my children. They were just babies and I neglected them…’

This was a tricky time for anyone in rehab and Giles needed to be guided gently. If he became too overwhelmed with grief or regret, there was a chance he’d leave, to run back to his old painkiller.

The Cloisters regime was tough. Yes, the patients were pushed way out of their comfort zones, but always with exquisite care. They were monitored with a gimlet eye so that we knew when to hold back, when to press hard, when to abruptly change strategy and show them some love.

‘You’ve come a long, long way in the last twenty-nine days,’ I said. ‘You’re becoming a whole new person. It’s painful, all this clarity, but it’ll be worth it. Over time, you can try to make things right with the people you hurt.’

‘They’ll never forgive me.’

Who knew if they would or they wouldn’t and if they didn’t, that was their right. But…‘No matter what,’ I said, ‘you can live through this and anything else life throws at you, without relapsing.’

I walked him back to group and, on a whim, crooked a finger to extract Harlie, just to check she was okay after Simon’s departure.

She swished into the consulting room, everything on point—brows, lashes, skin and hair. In the outside world, she managed a CosMedical clinic (called Rich Girl Face—I loved the name), where she had access to all kinds of tweakments.

‘So,’ I said. ‘Simon?’

‘What about him?’ She was cagey.

‘You and he were…close?’

‘You mean I fancied him?’ Her glare was combative. Then, ‘Maybe I did. For thirty seconds. Big mistake.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up about it,’ I said. ‘Happens all the time in here. When your drug of choice is taken away, you’ll look for other ways to make yourself feel good.’

‘Yeah, but,’ she said, ‘I heard about him and Prissie. They’re all trash, aren’t they? Liars and cheaters, the whole shower of them.’

‘Who exactly are you talking about?’

Immediately her mouth bunched up, as if it had been pulled tight with a string. She didn’t want to let the name escape. In our first session, two and a half weeks ago, she’d growled, ‘That fucker is dead to me.’

‘Who?’ I repeated.

‘Nnnnnn,’ she hummed, from behind her sealed lips, her eyes bright and popping. I swear to God, despite her fury, she was hilarious.

Eventually she exhaled and let herself speak. ‘Caleb.’