‘Mrs Kinnock, this is an outstanding school. We know what we’re doing.’

I pull my coat around myself, holding back a shiver. It’s a very ordinary wool coat, bought while I was with Olly.

I was a shadow then, of course. Hiding behind my husband.

I’m hoping that will change here.

‘It feels like I’m leaving Tom in prison,’ I say, trying for a little laugh.

Mr Cockrun meets my eye, his hard, black pupils unwavering. ‘There is a very long waiting list for this school, Mrs Kinnock. Thanks to social services, your son jumped right to the top. I’d have thought you’d be the last parent to criticise.’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘We usually pick and choose who we let in.’ The politician’s smile returns. ‘Let’s make sure we’re on the same page, Mrs Kinnock. Not start off on the wrong foot.’

He strolls back to the school building, and I’m left watching and wondering.

When I get back to our new Victorian house with its large, wraparound garden and elegant porch pillars, I sit on the front wall, put my head in my hands and cry.

I try not to make a sound, but sobs escape through my fingers.

Things will get better.

Of course I’m going to feel emotional on his first day.

Lizzie

I’ve been invited to a party, but I’m on the outside, not knowing what to do with myself. I’m not a skier or snowboarder, so I’m … nowhere. Standing on the balcony, looking at the mountains, I feel very alone.

Morzine is one of the world’s best ski resorts. I’ve heard it described as ‘electric’ after dark. Tomorrow, the slopes will be tingling with pink, white and yellow snowsuits. But tonight, they’re white and calm.

It sounded so adventurous, being a chalet girl out here. But the truth is, I’m running away. Things with Mum are unbearable again. I thought they’d be better after university, but if anything they’re worse. Her need to tear me down is stronger than ever.

It’s not about blame.

All I know is that I needed to get away, for my own sanity.

Behind me, Olympic hopefuls talk and laugh in their day clothes, drinking sparkling water or, if they’re real rebels, small bottles of beer.

Most of them aren’t interested in a twenty-something chalet girl with straight, brown hair and floral-patterned Doc Marten boots.

But … someone has come to stand beside me. He’s a tall, blond man wearing ripped jeans and a loose, light pink T-shirt. His light tan and white panda eyes tell me he’s a skier or snowboarder – probably a serious one, if the other guests at this party are anything to go by.

‘It’s Lizzie,’ the man asks. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘You’re still wearing your name badge.’