‘Rachel, now you really are being paranoid.’ Amber leant across the coffee table and tried to take my hand, but I wrapped myself up tightly, pulling away. ‘Do you think I’ve bugged your parents’ house? Or what, I’m tracking them with drones? Do fill me in!’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. I wrapped myself up more tightly. I was rocking myself now, but it was providing scant comfort. ‘I don’t know.’

Amber watched me, her face neutral. Winter sun was shining feebly through the window, surrounding her with soft light. She looked almost too beautiful, her youth extended by any means possible. Was there any part of our connection that wasn’t a lie?

‘Rachel,’ she said, her words a gentle lullaby. ‘You’re not well. You know that. Your damage makes you deeply self-destructive. And now you’re trying to destroy the one thing that’s saved you out of, what? Some twisted loyalty to your parents? I can’t let that happen. Not after all we’ve been through together.’

I hugged my knees under my chin, shock and confusion buffeting me. I had to try to stay clear – be the woman who could build a career or stand up to her family’s relentless bullying, not the girl who sobbed and heaved on this sofa until my face was red raw.

‘No. No, no, no. It’s not that!’ I said. I felt a creeping nausea, a mixture of shock and the after-effects of the bottle of cheap red I’d drained last night to knock myself out, the tannin still sharp in my dry mouth.

Amber stayed hypnotically calm. ‘Just sip your tea. Put your feet on the ground. Let your nervous system re-set.’

‘I don’t trust you anymore.’ She heard me this time, the words like a blade cutting through the space between us. ‘Tim thinks someone drugged me on the retreat.’

Her eyes flashed black with a rage I’d never seen before, and a small, soft part of me reflexively wished I’d never started this. That I could step effortlessly backwards. But I also knew it was far too late.

‘I think we need to stop for today, Rachel.’ Her tone felt off, less controlled. ‘These baroque accusations would be funny if they didn’t make me fear for you so much. For how close you are to breaking point.’ Her face shapeshifted from beautiful to ugly before my eyes, the automatic dismissal of my truth shatteringly reminiscent of Mum. ‘I’ve always known your family were toxic, but I don’t think I appreciated quite how deep the poison ran.’

And then I suddenly saw it, her rotten face as telling as a crime scene photograph. The realization sent my blood to ice. She didn’t hate them on my behalf: her hatred was her very own vendetta.