‘I’m going to go to bed, I think,’ I said, smiling an apology. I couldn’t let Tim’s words sink in too deeply – perhaps sleep would erase their ability to permeate. A flash of annoyance crossed Amber’s face. ‘I’m exhausted,’ I said apologetically. ‘I want to really enjoy our last day. Our last chance to all be together.’ How seamlessly I rolled it out – not people-pleasing, but mummy-pleasing.

She gracefully smiled her assent. ‘You do that, darling girl,’ she said.

‘Night, everyone,’ I said, avoiding Tim’s gaze and risking a tiny smile in Arthur’s direction. His look back at me lingered, but I turned away before it could start to spark.

I brushed my teeth methodically in the tiny shared bathroom, taking comfort in the mundane familiarity of the task. There was a vaguely sewage-y smell which I could only endure so long, and I crossed the narrow corridor to mine and Hannah’s monastic cell, goosebumps covering my naked flesh as I pulled on my pyjamas. I put the light out, waiting for sleep to blanket me, but instead I simply lay there, my heart beating too fast, my brain swirling with images. It was like a strange kind of vertigo – Mum’s face merging with the queenly tormentor of my fantasy, who according to Amber wasn’t even a fantasy. Loneliness delivered a gut punch. Who would ever sympathize with this terrifying hall of mirrors? If I told Sophie that Mum and I had travelled through time, her torturing me through the ages, she’d think I’d completely lost it, but the absurdity of it didn’t make it feel any less visceral: if anything, it made it feel more real, harder to dispute with cold logic. The only person who could possibly understand me now was Amber.

When the light tap on the door came, I was lost in a spiral of anxiety about the debt mountain I’d been ignoring. What if Mum’s newest strike was to take away the life support of Amber? Would I even survive it?

‘Hello?’ I called, and Arthur poked his head around the door. I sat up in bed, hugging my knees, a wave of self-protection sweeping over me.

‘Sorry, sorry, did I wake you up?’ he said, smiling down at me, his chiselled features illuminated by the yellowy light from the hall. I prayed he wouldn’t put on the main light and see my puffy, make-up-free face under the harsh glare of the bare bulb. Jesus – how was it that, even in the midst of a transformational retreat, I was still hanging onto my desire for a man to only see me at my most perfect? Would I be applying an extra layer of lipstick in a nuclear apocalypse?

‘Nope,’ I said, unwinding myself and smiling back at him. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’