‘Fra … Geri.’ She could kick herself. She’s been rehearsing this moment for the last four hours, convincing herself that she’s Geraldine Rotheram (her mum was wily enough to book the retreat using her maiden name rather than her married name) and she’s screwed it up at the first introduction. How the hell her mother thought she’d be able to pull it off for the whole five days she doesn’t know.

‘Geri, of course.’ If Kate caught the stumble she isn’t letting on. ‘How was your journey?’

‘Fine.’ Fran nods. She can’t be arsed getting into the nightmare of the seemingly endless M40. ‘Good. All good.’

‘Excellent.’ Kate shoots her another fake smile. ‘Most of the other guests have arrived and are having tea and cake in the lounge but I’m sure you’re desperate to see your room and freshen up.’ She holds out a hand. ‘Can I take your case?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Fran peers over Kate’s shoulder. The interior of the building is largely white walls, oak beams, paintings of landscapes and what looks suspiciously like laminate flooring. It’s pleasant and clean but Fran’s got no intention of staying for the full five days. Her aim is to complete her mission as quickly as she can so she can salvage her half term. ‘No sign of Tom? I was looking forward to meeting him.’

‘Tom’s … just getting a few things together. You’ll meet him later on. I know he’s really excited about meeting you all.’

‘Right.’ Fran matches Kate’s smile then quickly adopts a more miserable expression. This is a retreat for depressives and anxious types after all. She can’t look too cheery.

‘Okay then.’ Kate turns. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’

Fran’s behind has barely hit the cushion of the armchair when the overweight, bespectacled, curly haired young man sitting beside her reaches out a hand. ‘Hello, I’m Phoenix. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Geraldine.’ Mentally Fran congratulates herself on getting her fake name right, then realises she was so fixated on getting it right she completely failed to register his name. ‘Sorry, what was your name again?’

‘Phoenix.’

‘Like the city or the bird?’

‘The bird.’ When Phoenix smiles his eyes almost completely disappear beneath the rise of his cheeks: two dark slits hidden behind strangely old-fashioned glasses. ‘The one that rose from the ashes. From Norse mythology.’