‘I told you, I’d never do it,’ she insisted. ‘I love you, Rachel. You’re so much more than a client; you’re like my own flesh and blood. You’ve suffered the same way my own beautiful girl has. This way I can scoop you both up, rescue you together.’

I studied her face, its planes and contours, so familiar to me now. I really could see love – or at least her version of love – shining out of her blue eyes.

I stood up abruptly. ‘I need to think,’ I told her. ‘I have to think about all of this.’ I stopped. Despite everything she’d done, I had to try to atone this one last time. ‘I’m sorry – I’m so, so sorry – for what happened to Esther. For what my family did to yours.’

Amber’s eyes blazed. ‘They’re just words though, Rachel. You’ve got a chance to actually do something. To put some healing out into the universe, to make amends.’

‘But—’

She cut across me yet again, her words like a speech she was giving on the world stage. She was addressing the UN, delivering her TED Talk.

‘Think of all the other Esthers – young girls abused by powerful men while the world turns a blind eye.’ Her eyes bored into me. ‘Do it for all of them. Do it for you, because you’re one of them too. This money could do so much good.’

As my gaze locked with hers, it felt as if time had frozen. As if every second of my life was contained within this one.

And then I turned and walked away.

LILY

I was staring into the mirror on my dressing table, wrestling with my sense of impending dread. It was like an invisible twin these days, impossible to banish.

‘Come on, sexy,’ said Nick, cupping my bum in his hand through the weave of my skinny jeans. He’d been like this – appreciative, tactile – ever since that horrific police interview. ‘St Pancras is going to take us at least an hour.’

I turned to face him. ‘I’m not sure we should be doing this.’

‘Lily, don’t be like that,’ he said, irritable. ‘We have to keep living our lives, celebrating the wins. I upgraded us to a suite – it’s meant to be a surprise, but maybe it’ll cheer you up.’

‘But… it’s Sophie’s hen night tomorrow. And I’m behind on my contracts.’

He wasn’t falling for it.

‘Lily, you’re not invited,’ he said, his tone deliberately gentle. That was almost the worst part of it – being treated like an Alzheimer’s patient who thought doodlebugs were still dropping on London.

‘Sophie and I haven’t really talked about it,’ I snapped. ‘I think if I turned up and bought some Laurent Perrier to replace that vile Prosecco they all knock back like it’s water, she’d be delighted.’