She’s different, Jenna realises; it’s not Fran’s face that’s changed. Three years ago she would have marched into her flat – sidestepped a hug – and demanded answers. She’s less abrasive than she was, softer somehow.

‘I think he might have been,’ Jenna says, ‘and that makes me feel sad, but he’s happy now. He’s engaged to a woman called Grace and we’re friends – me and Damian, I mean. I’ve paid him back for the phone and the use of his credit card. But I owe him more than money.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Fran says after a pause, ‘is why he would sign up for the retreat in Wales after everything you both went through?’

‘He was scared someone would get hurt again. He was horrified when the advert was posted and he wanted to keep an eye on Tom and Kate. He had no idea Erica … or whatever her name is now … would be there. When I realised you were there too I nearly jumped on the first plane to the UK. Damian talked me out of it. He promised he’d look out for you. He sent me daily updates.’

Fran frowns. ‘How did he know who I was?’

‘He texted me on the first night. He said there was a woman who’d interrupted Tom’s welcome talk to ask what had happened to me. I asked him to take a photo and when your photo popped up on my phone I felt sick. I tried to ring you but you’d changed your number. The only way to get hold of you was to ring Mum and I … I’m sorry Fran … I couldn’t do that. I asked Damian to look out for you instead, to keep you safe.’

‘That’s why he told me not to mention your name.’

‘I guess so. He was probably worried about Erica coming after you.’

A silence settles between them and Jenna shifts on the sofa.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. ‘I owe you an explanation.’

‘It’s fine. You’ve already explained—’

‘Not about Damian and the retreat; about me, and what I did. I let you think I was dead, Fran. For nearly three years. I … I didn’t think you cared or, at least, I convinced myself that you didn’t. It made it easier.’

‘To do what?’

‘To hide. To disappear.’ She stands up and crosses the room to the window. She’s been dreading this moment, where she has to try and make sense of what she did. Thinking about who she was three years ago is like thinking about a different person, but it still aches like a bruise, remembering what a dark place she was in.