It was far too early when I left my flat, the yellowish, sodium glow of the streetlights only just breaking through the darkness. I splashed out on an Uber to the police station, even though my overdraft limit was now so close that I could smell it. The station was at the tip of Kilburn High Road, a low, grey concrete box, surrounded by iron railings. I stared at it from the pavement, feeling almost as if I was having an out-of-body experience. That airy feeling in my limbs, that fizzy lightheadedness – it reminded me of the first stirrings of a pill on a messy night out, even though this moment was diametrically opposed to that. I checked myself – I needed to ground. I needed to find the quiet authority that Amber had coached me to project, so that this decision didn’t end up making my life even worse, even more disastrous, than it already was.

It had been surprisingly easy to get this far. I’d wondered if they’d react with disbelief, or leave me waiting for hours like in an overstretched A&E. Instead, when I’d simply told them calmly that I wanted to report a case of harassment, they’d ushered me through to this comfortable room, all pastel walls and soft furnishings, and found a thoughtful female detective to take a statement. Was this all life really was? An elaborate confidence trick? I felt another surge of rage towards Mum. Why had I been robbed of the ability to believe in myself, to instruct the world to believe in me, for the first thirty-one years of my life? Thank God I had Amber: she’d be so proud if she could see me sitting here, handling all of this.

‘So, take me through it properly, Rachel. I want to make sure we’ve got enough details.’ The detective must’ve seen me unconsciously glance up at the clock. ‘Do you have time?’

‘I’ve got about half an hour. I’ve got a 9.30 team briefing, and I really can’t miss it.’

Detective Williams smiled approvingly. She looked late forties to me, smart enough but with a comforting air of someone who was more interested in doing a good job than in attracting attention to herself. She was dual heritage, dark hair trapped at the back of her head by a plastic claw, polished beige nails chipped at the edges, as if she hadn’t had time to re-paint them or strip the colour away, and thought the neutral tone was keeping her secret.

‘Working for the government – no rest for the wicked, eh?’

‘Exactly!’ I said. I’d made sure to flag my job early, making it clear that I was a responsible member of society, not some druggie flake.

‘So, tell me again about how your parents became suspicious of your relationship with Ms Greville. How it has played out in their treatment of you?’