Everything about Bea’s lifestyle is madly colourful and vibrant. All her crockery is handmade and she paints smiley faces on all her vases. She has so many pets. It’s the sort of home where you wouldn’t be surprised if a Shetland pony trotted through the kitchen. The beds are never made, the kids’ clothes are always a tinge of pink from mixed-up washing loads, but her home is one where you can’t help but feel safe and comforted when welcomed inside. She’d recreated the freedom and vibrancy of her own childhood home. It was at her parents’ house that I kissed my first crush at a party in the basement; it’s where I tried weed for the first time; it’s where I first danced until 5 a.m. to Fleetwood Mac and smoked my first cigarette out of the window. I dropped my cigarette butt, still lit, and burned a hole through her sofa, but Bea just shrugged and said it would be fine. That was the family’s attitude towards pretty much everything – there was a sign hanging in big bold letters above the front door that read, ‘Home is where the art is’. Bea’s mum Sonya gave me my first expensive red lipstick to wear. Her parents would play the piano and offer us posh canapés whilst letting us run around the spare rooms with water guns, shrieking. I sometimes felt bad about having so much fun while my mum was sitting at home sending me strict texts, constantly on medication for her headaches (which made her both snappy and drowsy), sitting in that bare house after my dad left us. My home life was bleak, and Bea’s house was my place to escape and feel totally and completely free. I often wonder who I’d be now if I hadn’t met Bea.

When I arrive, her back door is already open. They never lock it. Apparently people are nicer to each other in the countryside. They even say ‘hello’ to random passers-by – strange.

‘Hi!’ I yell, as I enter through a plant-filled conservatory and kick my trainers off next to a pile of muddy wellies.

‘Oh hello, love!’ Bea smiles at me from across the kitchen.

I sit down at her big oak table, covered in Emma Bridgewater mugs and plates and scattered newspapers. Bea’s kids are all watching TV from a frayed sofa at the other end of the large kitchen.

‘Tea?’ Bea asks, flicking the switch of her kettle. I go over and give her a hug.

‘Yes please! So good to see you,’ I say.

‘Same! I’m so happy you’re here. How are you? Two sugars as usual?’

‘Yes please. I’m OK. What’s new?’ I start eating a biscuit on a plate in front of me.

‘See that woman outside the window?’ Bea says, subtly pointing towards the window behind the kitchen sink, as she pours the tea. ‘She’s just moved in next door, did I tell you about her? She’s brought up her kid as a vegan apparently, and now the kid has rickets. It’s really sad.’