When the train comes into London, she is the first up. She pulls her bag from the rack. It’s a bigger bag than before, but half empty. She intends to fill it. She stands in the aisle, pressed between people, then steps down to the platform.

The boy walks past her. She looks at him, looks down, then up again.

He smiles.

She blushes and walks on.

Rachael takes Rose shopping. This time Rose tries on clothes. First they walk round, and Rachael fingers things, and pulls things out, and spreads the material in her hands, and says things.

Rose doesn’t say anything. In her pocket she clasps a wallet that contains a card that will buy what she wants. Her hand is sweaty with holding it.

‘Sweet!’ says Rachael, in a high-pitched squeal.

‘Now that is cute,’ says Rachael, with certainty.

‘OhmygoshIloveit,’ says Rachael, in a tone of deep wonder.

Rose watches herself in the mirror, in the changing rooms, and she is changed each time. In a sundress, in denim shorts, in bodycon, she is new. It is dizzying. The clothes feel strange on her, as if they are in some way not permitted. But when she looks, she is not-Rose, and not-Rose is allowed whatever she wants.

She buys things. A halterneck, a skirt, a bomber jacket. She wants to pack them away, but Rachael makes her wear them, there and then, and when she walks out of the last shop she is new.

They meet Archie, in a pub, in the sun, with wide tables, and purple flowers tumbling down aged brick walls, and men in suits with their jackets off and their sharp eyes half closed. He kisses her hand and smiles. When she sits down, her eyes shine, and her cheeks are blotchy with excitement, and her thin knees poke nervously out from the hem of her skirt.

Rose sleeps in the spare room at Titch’s. She keeps pyjamas there. Aaron spends his time on the moor, or with Jack.

Rose signs some deals. She signs to an agent, and does some jobs. She isn’t suddenly a supermodel, but she does appear in some adverts. On the back cover of a magazine in a short dress springing up in some new trainers. On a sofa with a phone in another advert. She wears sportswear. She uses spot cream. She has an Instagram account.

Aaron cuts her photos out and tacks them up on her wall, next to that first photo, until they cover up the sofas and china shepherdesses.

Sometimes Graeme looks at them. His eyes drift over the pictures. Her limbs, her skin. It doesn’t always seem good, this thing that has happened. But when you see her, there, in those places, in those clothes, it does. She looks back out at you, transformed. Beautiful. Like Titch says, it is a fairy tale.