We’d arranged to meet in the Charis House library. The deal was that Joy Papplewick would appear for photographs, and make a short prepared statement. I would be answering questions and trying not to throw my drink in anyone’s face. Unlike most school libraries, this one had been designed to be as appealing a space as possible. There were rocking chairs, beanbags, and other cosy seating options. Despite its age, the room was airy and bright with teal walls and plush rugs on the wooden floor. Several desks repurposed from old doors were tucked into corners, or pushed together for collaborative working, and neatly stacked in a far nook were weighted blankets, waterfall lighting, and other items designed to support those struggling with sensory processing or attachment issues.

There was no heating on while school was closed for the holiday, so four armchairs had been set around a roaring fire. I sat with Nana Joy, sipped a glass of water, and tried to soak up some of her cool composure.

Henry showed the reporter and photographer in. We’d decided that my parents would stay well away this time. He waited, the only hint of tension a slight hunch to his shoulders, until Nana Joy had finished posing beside me like the professional she was. Her dazzling smile and confident posture detracted beautifully from the shadows that still lingered from her fall.

The reporter chattered easily with us while the photographer did his work, throwing in seemingly offhand questions that didn’t fool Nana Joy for a second. She tossed her thinning hair, batted spindly eyelashes, and once the photos were taken she looked him straight in the eye and recited nothing more than the barest facts.

‘Thank you very much, gentlemen,’ she concluded, using Henry’s elbow to heave herself up. ‘I trust you’ll comport yourself with more integrity than Tony O’Dowd ever did.’

She rested her hand, light and frail as a tiny bird, on mine as she walked past me. ‘Over you to, my lovely. Time to do what you do best.’

‘Tell them tomorrow’s weather?’ I asked, trying to conceal my anxiety behind a joke.

‘Win their hearts and minds!’ she retorted, and, with a wink, hobbled off.

The next hour required every ounce of my broadcasting training and experience. I did my best to lay a trail of juicy breadcrumbs, giving nothing away that any of us would regret later, but enough to lead them towards the real reason I’d agreed to talk.

I had the facts and figures all ready, thanks to Jed. More importantly, I had the stories, sprinkled with humour, drenched with heartbreak and ultimately providing the much-needed happy ending. I had the passion, and the motivation, and by the time I’d finished, both of the journalists had contributed to the relaunched Charis House fund themselves.