One day, when I look in the mirror, I see myself instead of a cadaverous junkie, and that’s the morning I call Ant and ask if I can work a few shifts for him again. He takes some convincing, but when someone lets him down for a Burn’s Night ceilidh at the end of January, I fill in and work harder than I have in years. Gradually the shifts get more regular. I don’t go looking for Spike because I can’t trust myself not to relapse. Busy, busy, busy. The less time I have to think, the more likely I am to stay clean.

I’m walking home from a St Patrick’s Day party shift, my hair sprayed shamrock green, when I get a text.

GREENIE! Am back in Hove. Call me. Luv Zoë.

I haven’t heard from her since Ham died and she took off, saying she was going to get clean. Should I ignore her? Probably. But the fact she has a phone – and credit to text me – is positive. Life has been tough for Zoë but maybe she’s going to be OK.

I call because I want to know how she’s doing. ‘Hey, Zee, I thought you’d disappeared for good.’

‘Could say the same about you, Greenie. You well?’

‘Yeah. I’m . . . not using anymore.’

She laughs. ‘Snap. Boring, innit? Fancy meeting up for some herbal tea?’

I know ex-users are the worst people to help each other, but even so, I’m desperate to talk to someone who understands how hard this is. So I tell her my address.

When she arrives at our house, her eyes are clear and bright as they widen in amazement. ‘I knew you had money, but this is fucking incredible.’

‘Yeah, I was born with a silver spoon . . .’

‘Nothing better for chasing the dragon.’ She laughs and the lines at the corner of her eyes crease with wickedness. ‘Kidding. Ha, look, you’ve got green hair!’ Her laugh sounds different to when she’s high: more childlike.

When we get to my den, I make coffee. As I hand it over, I can smell alcohol on her breath. Not completely clean then, but booze has to be an improvement on what she was doing before.

‘So where did you go?’ I ask her, after she’s stopped stroking the furniture and cooing over the window boxes. The daffodils Mum plants every year are starting to come through.

‘Back to my home town. It wasn’t all that,’ she says, grimly. I wait for her to say more, but instead, she points to the flowers. ‘That’s a Martinette. They bloom earlier down here.’

I try to imagine where Zoë learned the names of daffodils. But before I can come up with a reply, she’s reaching for me, touching my neck.

‘Hold on, Zoë.’