Of course, my instinct was to turn off the tap, put an end to the relationship that had kickstarted this whole new phase of difficulty, but I couldn’t quite risk it. When I came close to doing it, I would see her face down on the floor of that loo, or, worse, hooked up to that drip, and a flickering future memory would fell me: a coffin lowered into the ground, a mortuary drawer, my daughter’s name scrawled on the label. How could she put me through this when I loved her so deeply? If she ever became a mother, I felt sure she’d beg my forgiveness, but for now, she was a selfish child who needed her own parent to stay as solid as a rock.

When Amber answered the buzzer, I tried to disguise my voice a little.

‘It’s Becky Friedman,’ I said, realizing as I said it that my alter ego appeared to be Jewish. She’d also paid for the session in advance.

‘Come on up,’ she trilled, and I pushed open the door. Even if this was as far as I got, I thought smugly, at least I’d won round one.

How stupid I was. We were at least three rounds in, and I was already on the ropes.

I climbed upwards determinedly, just as she must have started down. We almost collided on the landing. I waited for the shock to land on her, but she either hid it masterfully well or experienced something else entirely.

‘Lily,’ she said. ‘You know you can’t be here. I’ve been crystal clear with you.’

I hated the fact that I couldn’t hit back. I took a deep breath, thought about those stubborn clients who don’t initially want me to be the one to rent their house, even though I know the market better than they know the alphabet. They always cave.

‘I understand,’ I said, forcing a warm smile. ‘I really do. But we both care deeply about Rachel.’ I’m her mother! I wanted to scream. You’re just the latest hired help, and trust me, I’ve fired plenty of your brethren over the years. ‘If you’d just let me have ten minutes, I think we could help each other – help her – without in any way breaking her confidence.’

Amber paused. I looked at her properly now, trying not to let her see my eyes raking over her. Was it professional to wear those snug black jeans to work, a long-sleeved Breton T-shirt slung casually over the top to complete the look? I looked at her plump skin, the suspicious absence of lines that rendered her undeniably attractive face an ageless mask. I know how subtle filler can be: I wasn’t fooled for an instant. She could well have been only five or six years younger than me once you’d leeched the chemicals out of those firm cheeks.