Meanwhile here she was, warm and a bit ripe in her sleeping bag, feeling as if she didn’t want to do anything at all any more. Thistle and Rain had pounded on her door at occasional intervals – ‘Melia? Melia!’ – but she’d ignored them, and Celeste had eventually gently chided them to leave her be. ‘Teenagers need their sleep,’ Amelia had heard her say and she’d rolled over unhappily. She didn’t need any more sleep. She’d been going to bed really early at night just because it was all so overwhelming. What she needed was to feel like someone gave a shit. Like she belonged somewhere. Because she sure as hell didn’t belong here.

She stared at her phone and at the glossy images she’d put up on social media over the last few days. Having an amazing time with my famous dad!!! My gorgeous stepbrother and sis!!! First photography lesson with Dad – lucky me! There were a few new likes since the last time she’d looked. A few new comments. It all felt hollow, though, when her own dad hadn’t followed her back on Instagram yet. She’d dropped it into the conversation yesterday, trying not to sound too keen or desperate – ‘Hey! How come you’re not following me then?’ – and he’d laughed, but made no comment. Was he embarrassed by her? Or just not that interested? She wasn’t sure which was worse.

She flicked through to the last image, a photo of herself posed artfully in the back garden. There were some blurry blue cornflowers behind her and the sun was falling on her face as she smiled. Happy, she’d captioned the shot, but just seconds after it had been taken, a chicken had waddled up to her and she’d yelped in fright, and then Thistle had wandered out with a storybook, wanting Amelia to read to her, and then Rain had fallen over and started crying, and then Celeste had snapped at Amelia for not keeping an eye on the kids. Er . . . do I look like your nanny? Amelia had thought sarcastically, scowling and stomping back inside.

Happy indeed. A picture might paint a thousand words, but her pictures only told lies. A more representative image of her stay here would be a photo taken right now, of her huddled in a sleeping bag, with no inclination whatsoever to get up. Willing the time to pass so that she could go back to Cornwall with her mum. Then a thought struck her.

‘Mum?’ she said when Maggie answered the call. ‘I don’t suppose you could pick me up a bit early, could you? Like . . . today?’