‘Am I?’ I said, looking up at her. ‘Look at the state of me. I’m going to roll into the staff meeting looking like a panda that’s been sent from China to mate in London Zoo.’

A joke was always my get-out-of-jail-free card in those days. Amber accepted it, laughing down at me before we pulled apart.

‘There’s your bravery, right there,’ she said, narrowing her eyes like she was gazing at a far-off star. ‘You’ve just gone headlong into the biggest, most painful trauma of your life, and you’re already looking for the light.’

I grinned, delighted with her assessment.

‘I’m trying,’ I said. ‘I really am.’ I paused. ‘I want this to change me.’

Amber cocked her head. ‘You’re perfect now, Rachel.’

‘Jesus, hardly…’

‘You’re perfectly imperfect, like all of us. Some of your behaviours are problematic, but you’re working on the reasons why, and shaming yourself won’t get you where you want to go.’ She smiled. ‘It’s time to stop listening to other people’s voices in your own head.’

It was almost spooky, the way she seemed to know me better than I knew myself after a few short weeks. She’d nailed it: all day, every day, I converted Mum’s judge-y commentary on my life into a hateful inner monologue.

‘You’re right,’ I breathed.

‘Life doesn’t have to be about what anyone else wants you to be,’ she grinned. ‘And how liberating is that?’

‘Sounds like the fucking dream!’ I said.

Amber’s moods – reflective, exuberant – every single one of them was as infectious as chickenpox. In that moment, I felt as if I was going to slay Thursday. That none of it mattered. I neglected to think about the fact that the parents I was happily throwing on the emotional scrapheap were footing the bill for my triumphant self-actualization. I looked down at my watch. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go.’

Amber looked over at me. ‘I shouldn’t offer – I’m sure it’s breaking every boundary there is – but do you want to borrow my make-up bag before you leave? I hear they shoot pandas in the wild.’

‘Could I?’

‘For one of my very favourite clients? Of course you can.’

I tingled when she said that; I lit up like that string of Christmas lights she’d slung so casually over the fireplace. She knew it too: nothing Amber did was casual, however much she faked it.