She didn’t look entirely like the picture on her website either, but nor was she brandishing a copy of The Watchtower, so it had to be her. Her dark hair was cut to just below her ears, where it kicked up in the kind of girlish curls that demanded product and a roller brush. She wore gold earrings, tiny, shiny tassels that brought out the brightness of her cornflower-blue eyes. There were gold studs, too, that ran up the ear lobes in a punky flourish. The eyes themselves were watchful, quickly scanning my face as if an internal computer was downloading the data faster than the speed of light.

‘Yes,’ she said, sticking out a gloved hand. ‘And you’re Lily?’

‘I am,’ I said, stepping aside.

I swallowed, suddenly unsteady. I clung to the door handle, fixing a smile on my face. Every step was like this. The phone call. The drive to the hospital. Each one was an incontrovertible admission that there was something deeply wrong with my child.

‘I’m so glad to be here,’ she said, her voice soft, and I felt something inside me unfurl.

‘It was wonderful you could fit us in,’ I said, opening the door fully and ushering her into our wide hallway. There’s a large bamboo-framed mirror that hangs down the length of it, an inlayed lacquer table where post and keys get dumped. I automatically de-focused my eyes, not wanting any stray folds of jowly skin to make themselves known to me. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘Something herbal would be great,’ she said, her gaze still trained on me. I was glad. Everything looked so untidy: Nick’s giant, muddy wellies discarded by the doormat, a pizza leaflet shouting loudly about extra mozzarella. I kept a brisk pace towards the kitchen.

‘Rachel’s resting upstairs. I’ll put the kettle on and go and find her.’

‘No rush,’ she said, smiling at me.

I grabbed it, then filled it from the fiddly little filter jet. My hands were shaking, and a few drops of scalding water dripped onto my bare flesh. I winced, tried to hide the pain.

‘No…’ I said. ‘I’m just conscious we’ve only got an hour with you.’

She waved an airy hand.

‘The first session has its own pace. I try not to get too hung up on time…’ She pantomimed hitting an imaginary watch on her wrist, which was ringed by a set of silver bangles. ‘Heal faster! Not really my approach. Kind of counter-productive, don’t you think?’

And I realized with a jolt that I didn’t know what I thought. I hadn’t thought beyond… her turning up, her making it better. I hadn’t imagined how any of this would unfold. Looking back now, I want to slap myself for the lack of foresight, even if it was born out of desperation.

‘Yes, no – absolutely,’ I said.

Suddenly my feet felt rooted to the tiled floor.