‘You and I have a soul connection,’ said Michael, stroking my hair. ‘I felt it the moment I saw you. I believe in that kind of love. Soul love. Not bits of paper, who belongs to who. Boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, all those labels. You love who you love when you love them. But it sounds like the world down here has a hold over you. The planets aren’t aligning.’

‘I have to go.’ I pulled a blanket around my body and searched the shiny floor for my clothes, tears coming.

Michael sat up, watching me. ‘Listen, you blew me away last night. Totally blew me away. We had a good time together. Soul mates always meet again. Maybe not in this life but another one.’

As I opened the bedroom door, I saw two other sleeping bodies in the lounge area: girls from outside the stage doors last night. They were naked and partially covered with blankets.

It looked sordid and I felt the cheapness of it all – young girls sleeping with musicians who couldn’t care less about them.

Michael came to the door. ‘I can see that pretty little brain working. Put all that down. All that stress. That’s what gave you cancer.’ He put a hand to my chest. ‘We’re old souls, you and I. We’ll meet again somewhere, somehow.’

My chest felt warm with his touch. Like he was imparting some kind of energy.

‘I wish you weren’t married.’

Michael kissed my head. ‘Danny will take you home. Okay? We’ve got my little Jaguar F-Type tucked under this bus, believe it or not. It’s in the hold, right underneath us. How about that? Don’t say anything to the press, will you? Don’t be that girl.’ He pushed the door all the way open. ‘Danny,’ he shouted down the bus. ‘Danny – this girl needs a ride home.’

The driver poked his head out from the cab at the front.

‘You’ll be safe with Danny,’ said Michael, slinging his arm around my shoulder in a pally way. ‘I’ve known this man for years. He’ll look after you. Okay, love?’

The term of endearment felt dismissive. Disconnected.

I felt the cold, hard thump of the bedroom door closing behind me.

Lorna

It’s 8 a.m.

‘Liberty?’ I yell up the stairs. ‘What’s happening up there? It’s nearly time for school.’

Liberty still hasn’t come down for breakfast. Usually she’s up at seven, walking the grounds with Skywalker.

She’s angry with me, I’m sure. Sulking.

I wonder how well she slept last night. I only managed a few hours.

This morning, I’m determined to smooth things over.

Last night was not a good night.

I’ve made Liberty a fresh fruit plate with a side of yoghurt, coconut and quinoa – her favourite.