I think of that girl I met in the street, and of my joke to Luce about calling myself Natasha, and it’s as if an ice-cold lump of metal is slowly forcing its way down my gullet. ‘How is that allowed to happen?’

The woman shrugs and looks down. Conversation closed.

‘How much is your fee?’ I ask her.

‘I’ll work that out with the owner of the house. Don’t worry about that.’

But in spite of the noise ringing in my ears, the fecking glaring alarm bells doing their mad GONG thing, in spite of this, I tell myself … in two and a half years … thirty months, I’ll be done … and I’ll have a nice wad of cash saved up.

Hatchet tells me to rest up, not to go outside, to eat and build up my strength. I spend the next two days and nights in the house with the Homestore and More lighting and the drawers full of condoms. Condoms and me get up close and personal in the next few days. They’re strong little buggers; my fingers can’t break them. ‘No way,’ Brian used to say, ‘can’t feel anything.’ I like the idea of a barrier between some guy’s bits and my insides.

I hate waiting – waiting is the worst kind of torture. I’d rather be there now, doing it, getting into the swing of things. I veer wildly between wanting to run and wanting to stay. It’s this or home I tell myself over and over, on a loop, replaying the worst of Mother, cranking up the images so she’s caricature and grotesque. I’m like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, clacking my heels together, except instead of saying ‘There’s no place like home,’ I chant, ‘Anyplace is better than home, anyplace is better than that place, anyplace has to be better …’ out loud, over and over on a loop. I make up elaborate stories about the generous, loaded men I’m about to meet, men who’ll want to show me a good time, and who’ll be proud to be seen in public with me on their arm. I’ll be wearing beautiful couture outfits and they’ll be falling at my feet.

The day of departure finally arrives. Hatchet shakes my hand formally at the door. ‘Good luck,’ she says, which ignites a flicker of fear in my belly. Her eyes meet mine for the first time, and I never noticed (maybe because she hasn’t given me direct eye contact until now) that they’re milky blue, almost transparent, a thin film over them blocking any light. Her hand, as it brushes against mine, is dry as that tiny salamander I once touched on holidays in Majorca, then stamped underfoot. Adios, Dead Lady.