Tess leans over her to get to the cupboard. ‘Now, I’ve got a present for you.’ She pulls out a plain white mug. ‘There are paints in the dresser drawer. I’d like you to decorate it in any way you like. All my women have one.’ She points above the kettle, where a rack of graffitied cups hangs, like a row of Salem witches. Lizzie casts her eye over the crudely painted words. Still I rise, I am. I am. I am. She has no idea what to put on hers. I hate mugs with stupid slogans on them maybe?

‘You probably think it’s a daft idea.’

‘Can Lenny have one too?’

‘Of course!’ Tess gets another out of the cupboard and puts it next to Lizzie’s. ‘You can paint them this weekend. Now then, let’s take this tea into the office. I need some help with the filing.’ Tess bustles past with the tray and Lizzie trails behind. ‘Right.’ Tess claps her hands together and Lizzie jumps. ‘Can you organize these by surname and pop them into this folder for me?’ She holds out a sheaf of papers and a bright pink lever arch file. Lizzie nods and takes the stack of papers being handed to her. The surname is at the top right-hand corner. It’s the only place she needs to look, but words keep jumping off the page at her. Fist … broken … burn. It’s like a word search and she can’t stop her brain finding more: trauma, dislocated, infection.

Lizzie’s hands are shaking slightly, but she files the first letter under B and forces herself to continue, until she sees the words baby and skull fracture. Then she stands abruptly and drops the folder. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache. Can I take Maud out?’

‘Now?’ Tess looks surprised.

‘Yes. I need some fresh air. Also, Maud is at least five pounds overweight, probably from all the custard creams. Obesity in dogs can lead to anything from infected fat folds to breathing problems. And it’s almost time to get Lenny from school. I’ll take her with me.’

‘It’s only two.’ Tess makes a show of looking at her watch, but before she can say anything else, Lizzie calls for Maud, who comes trotting in looking utterly furious, as if she has understood every word Lizzie said and is thinking, Infected fat folds indeed! How very dare you?

‘Lizzie, I think maybe we need to talk about—’

Lizzie is saved by one of the new arrivals coming down the stairs, balled-up sheets in her hands and shame painting her face a menstrual-blood red. ‘Sorry, Tess,’ she says, ‘bit of an accident.’