Did I think about Mum? Yes. Often. Karina had decreased her texts to every other day, and while I knew that Mum was starting to cope without me, this was the longest I’d ever gone without talking to the person closest to me. I found myself wondering what she’d think of the paint colour I’d picked, or wanting to let her know how my promotion was going, to laugh about Irene Jenkins. I knew she’d be nonplussed about me having a dog, and I found myself having imaginary conversations with her in my head, trying to justify this new life I was leading, in some vain attempt to win her approval.

During the week, it was easier to ignore that part of my life, to shut it away and focus on the million other, nicer things I had to think about. But my friends being here was a reminder that I was Olivia Tennyson, with a history and an identity outside of End Cottage and Bigley library. I asked myself a hundred times that day whether it was time to see her, or to at least try another phone call. I asked Steph, once, and the force of her reaction was enough to ensure I didn’t ask again. But now I was moving into my beautiful new bedroom, it needed curtains and bedding. Before long, I would make a trip to the Buttonhole to use their sewing machine. And before then, I would have to decide whether or not to ask Mum to join me.

Once Steph and Drew had taken a flagging Nicky home via the promised McDonald’s drive-through, Joan and I finished off the last of the picnic and decided to take Nesbit on an evening walk, with the hope of increasing the likelihood of earning a red sticker.

‘Just a short one,’ I instructed her, clipping on his new lead. ‘We’ll do the loop along the edge of the forest, round the clearing with the picnic benches and then back. Puppies this age can’t manage a long walk yet.’

But Nesbit didn’t agree. After fifteen minutes of joyful investigating, at the point we were turning for home, he froze, head lifted, nose twitching. As Joan gave a tug on his lead to pull him around, he suddenly lunged forwards in the opposite direction, yanking the lead out of her hand. Before we had time to react, he’d disappeared into the undergrowth.

I said a word that you aren’t supposed to say in front of eleven-year-olds, before racing after him. Joan plunged through the bushes, but that was going to be impossible at my size, so I ran around, down another footpath that would hopefully meet him somewhere on the other side.

‘He’s gone that way!’ Joan panted when we reunited a minute later. ‘Quickly!’