The girl rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth tweaking up in the suggestion of a smile. ‘I’m not worried about that. I know how to be safe around adults. I mean, you don’t know me.’

I rolled my eyes back at her. ‘I know you’re a book lover. As far as I’m concerned that makes you the best type of person, and I am willing to take the risk that you’re trustworthy.’

She took another moment to consider, before finally accepting the books.

‘I also know that your name is…’ I paused while I pulled out the card and squinted at the name before holding it out to her. ‘Diamanté Butterfly Brown. That’s a pretty name.’

She grimaced. ‘If you’re a My Little Pony.’

‘Um…’

‘My actual name is Joan.’

‘Oh, okay.’

‘I’m changing it legally as soon as I’m sixteen.’

‘Well, lovely to meet you, Joan. I’m Olivia Anne Tennyson, but my actual name is Ollie. Are you interested in that drink? I’ve got a packet of Magnums in the freezer.’

‘Err…’ Joan’s gaze darted to me before fixing on the grass between us. ‘That’s… um…’ She squeezed the books tighter to her chest and I realised what was causing her discomfort.

‘Of course, I’m being completely thoughtless!’ I made a shooing notion with my hands. ‘Get back to the Ringwraiths and Frodo!’

A few minutes later, I left a glass of lemonade and a Magnum beside her blanket before settling back on my own patch of the lawn with a brand new thriller.

Later that evening, once I’d eaten a chickpea salad (Mum hated chickpeas) and was doing some follow-up admin from Trev’s first session, there was a loud banging on my door.

I knew it wasn’t Steph, because she wouldn’t turn up without letting me know. A spike of anxiety lodged itself beneath my breastbone. Surely Mum hadn’t somehow found out where I lived?

Tiptoeing to the front door, I slowly eased it open, feeling a whoosh of relief when I saw someone much younger than Mum. The anxiety muscled its way back in again when, opening the door wider, I got a better view of the woman’s body language.

She stood there in cut-off jeans and a pink vest top, arms folded, flip-flop tapping the pavement as she chewed the side of her mouth.

‘Hello?’ I asked, immediately clearing my throat to try to clear the rasp.

She reached out one hand, yanking into view what turned out to be Joan. I noted the resemblance, then. This woman’s hair was several shades darker than Joan’s, but she had the same grey-green eyes, and a mouth slightly too big for her face. She was small and wiry and wound up like an angry wasp.

‘This one says you gave her some books,’ she snapped, in a much stronger accent than Joan’s.