‘You just do what you have to. But not so much about me.’ I whisper in her ear, make her my confidante: ‘I’m going to try to get them back.’

She winks at me and crashes my knuckle.

‘Stay strong, sister.’

She salutes and I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a #teamCaro rubber bracelet. But what just happened? I feel like it’s all been turned around on me again. It’s made me feel like I need to take even more action. How could I have known that some crazy fucking guy was following me around? No doubt at some point I’ll be called in for questioning and I’ll see a picture of him and everything he has seen me do will be laid bare.

DS Percy is right. This is going to look bad for me. I’ve accused Jack of cheating on me and then gone off, got pissed and slept with random men. I didn’t mean it. I love my kids. That would never have happened if they were here with me. Never. Nor the drinking. But that’s the Official story and it doesn’t put me in the good light I need it to for Tuesday.

Back to me now. I’m no longer made-up Monica or the woman in the wig. No imaginary husband to lay all my anger and frustration on. I’m Caroline Atkinson. In three days’ time I’ll be sitting in front of social services fighting for my children. I need to lay low now. No more drama. Jack can wait. I’ll deal with him after I’ve made my case for the kids.

My neighbour’s checking her phone, scrolling through photos she’s taken and muttering that she knows it’s here somewhere. She intermittently shows me Jack and a woman outside my house and I wonder if I can get her to send those pictures to me. Then she points her talon up the road.

‘Oh. Here’s one of the reporters. Round here earlier asking where you are.’

I spin around and see a long blonde ponytail emerge from a BMW. It’s swinging as the woman stomps towards me. Not so much Paula Pussycat as Pissed-off Paula.

Chapter Thirty-four

We lock eyes as she passes me and I follow her up the path. She pushes the front door open and it slams against the wall, making a small amount of paint drop onto the floor, which, if it were possible, makes me angrier.

Like most people who come into my home, she momentarily stares around. I haven’t seen my sister for years. Not since Mum and Dad moved to Canada just after that fucking wedding. I’m a little bit shocked that she’s lost the little-girl innocent look she prized so highly. It’s been replaced with a high-maintenance sheen that I know only comes with many trips to the beautician.