More than one of my exes has called me a man-child, and I can’t disagree, but as soon as Casey and Angelica settle in, I’ll tell them the truth, like a grown-up.

‘Ready?’ Veej stubs out the cigarette, tucks the butt back in the packet.

I follow him inside. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

‘Gotta split,’ he says, doing a geeky hand-movement to match. ‘But as soon as I’m back from Berlin I want to meet her, OK?’

Not a chance. ‘Sure.’

Vijay gives me a doubtful look. ‘You’re not going to back out, are you?’

‘Too late for that.’ And it is. The harm I’d do by backing out now goes beyond the emotional.

After Vijay leaves, I check the spare rooms. Clean all the surfaces again with the hospital-grade antibacterial wipes Angelica told me to buy. Anything to stay busy. I’ll get this bit right. Keep Casey and her mum safe. It’s the least I can do.

But it’s four weeks only. Like I always say, we’re here for a good time, not a long time. When August comes, they will go their way and I will go mine.

Chapter 3: Casey

Me and Mum are on the road, the Ka windows wound all the way down, singing to ‘Toxic’ on the radio at the top of our voices.

Everyone says we’re like sisters. Mum hasn’t got an actual sister and I don’t think I’m ever going to get one of my own. But when she’s happy, even just for a few seconds, we don’t need anybody else.

‘Last services before we get to Bristol,’ she says. ‘Do you have to stop?’

Mum hates service stations because of the germs. Usually I cross my legs and wait till we’ve got to where we’re going. But when I check my face in the mirror, my eye make-up has run, so I look like a fat panda. I can’t show up looking like this.

‘Yeah, I think I do. Sorry.’

The faint lines between her eyebrows pinch together. ‘Don’t apologize, sweetheart. When you gotta go, you gotta go.’

Luckily she lets me go into the loos on my own, so I don’t have to pretend I need an actual wee. The lights above the washbasins are even meaner than the ones in hospitals. My face is fat and my skin’s grey-yellow, like the yolk of a hard-boiled egg.

I get out the contour palette all the YouTubers use, but I still look horrible. Back at the car, I ask Mum to open up the boot so I can unzip my suitcase. I pull out the long chain strung with my beads of courage, and the acupressure wristbands that are meant to stop nausea.

‘Mum? You did pack my wig, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but only in case the therapy affects your hair—’

‘Found it!’

‘Oh, Casey. You don’t need to wear that today. You can’t even see the scars any more.’

She’s lying. I’ve got stitch lines that look like I’ve been struck by lightning, and my real hair hasn’t grown back enough to cover them.