I walk in, ten minutes late, and position myself at the back, Marmie squirming in her makeshift pouch. The woman to my right leans in and smiles. ‘Adorable.’ The man to my left makes a disgusted face, stands, scrapes his chair loudly, muttering. Necks crane, faces turn, expressions holding the full spectrum of human outrage and delight. I’m doing it again, making a holy show of myself – a Lara favourite that prompted one of two responses: a desire to run and hide, or to make a further spectacle of myself on stage. The whisperings intensify. They’re not saying anything distinct, just a soft susurration, like a snake charmer, hypnotic and powerful.

‘The worst times for me are the evenings, when the ache kicks in. Typical empty-nest syndrome. Since James left, it is, quite simply, agony. I don’t honestly know if I would be here if I didn’t have these rooms to come to.’

The woman is in her sixties, white hair in an immaculate chignon, black polo-neck, tailored trousers, small studded diamonds in her earlobes.

I catch her eye and am greeted by an open smile.

‘What’s the kitten’s tipple?’

The room laughs and a warmth seeps in. Permission granted.

‘She’s partial to the Pinot Grigio.’

Uproar, hilarity, grown men and women weeping with laughter. Nothing in moderation in this room.

‘Welcome,’ the elegant speaker continues. ‘That white witch in a bottle casts a very strong spell. She’s a hard bitch to escape, clad as she is in all her finery.’

I have a flash of the two of us, sipping a chilled, crisp, dry beauty with hints of elderflower and lemongrass, in the woman’s pristine white marbled kitchen with views on to the conservatory and lawn.

The meeting closes, a cup of tea materialises, Marietta biscuits and general pleasantries are bantered about. The woman stirs an ancient memory in me. Something about her scent, notes of mouthwash and rosewater, and the timbre of her voice, saccharine-sweet, yet containing within it its opposite. She offers me her card: ‘Jean Cullivan, piano teacher and masseuse.’

‘Call me any time,’ she offers after hearing that I have just been released from a rehab facility. ‘But then, I’m sure you’ve been given a list of numbers your arm’s length.’

The only number I have is David’s and I don’t want to call him too soon. I could call the communal phone in the hall, but think of the endless queues.

‘Not really, no.’

‘I never understand how they let people out of those places with no proper supports in place.’

‘They don’t have the resources, I guess,’ I say.

‘This fucking government,’ Jean says politely. ‘Fucking shower of crooks.’

‘Nothing to do with the government, actually. The place I was in was run by a religious charity.’

‘Well, exactly. My point exactly. My commiserations, by the way.’

I smile, with no thought of the desired effect. ‘Actually, the old bats weren’t so bad.’

‘God, you’d have to drag me to a place like that kicking and screaming.’