I reached up a hand unconsciously to fondle Sophie’s scarf, which was still looped around my neck – I’d fallen asleep in its embrace. I could smell the mustiness of Hannah’s morning breath, her lank, dyed hair curtaining my forehead.

There I was, dodging intimacy again.

‘Happy Christmas!’ I said, injecting cheer into my tone. I hugged her back properly, then swung my feet down onto the sticky carpet. ‘And thank you for saying that. You’re brave, too, taking a risk on this whole thing.’

We’d established last night that Hannah was adopted, had never felt her adoptive parents loved her as much as her high-flying siblings. There was a suicide attempt that she wasn’t yet ready to talk about: instead she’d taken on Amber’s suggestion of Little Lost Lamb as her name and promised to get courageous enough to share more today.

‘Nothing’s a risk if Amber’s with us,’ said Hannah, her expression as dreamy as a lover.

Amber was back at the stove, her big orange tureen now filled with steaming porridge. Her dark hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, a woollen dress skimming her body, the scarlet bow of her mouth as festive as a Christmas decoration. My eyes flicked to the kitchen table, unconsciously searching for Arthur. Why had I brought a suitcase full of jeans and tracksuit bottoms? I chided myself: I was falling for the biggest con in the book: comparison – something Amber herself had taught me to reject as I’d sat in her room wailing about all the milestones I’d failed to achieve. What an irony that I was now comparing myself to my liberator. I’d brought the warm, comfortable clothes she’d advised us to pack, whilst she was expressing herself in her normal, vivid way.

Meanwhile, there was no sign of Arthur. I tried not to overthink it.

‘Here’s your Happy Christmas breakfast!’ Amber trilled, holding out a bowl for me. ‘Made with almond milk and water. There’s maple syrup on the table.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I couldn’t help feeling like every meal had the same mulchy quality you’d only fully appreciate if you had false teeth. ‘Are there are any eggs I could boil?’

She cocked her head, looking slightly disappointed.

‘Eggs aren’t strictly vegan, Toxic Mummy’s Daughter.’

‘No,’ agreed Hannah, coming up behind me. ‘The hens get really mistreated actually – I can send you a link about it. Amber, can I have a big bowl of the yummy stuff?’

‘Of course you can!’ beamed Amber, and I retreated to the table, feeling stung. Everything still had that heightened quality, emotions so close to the surface that the slightest touch triggered an electric reaction.

Tim picked up a big cafetière of coffee as I sat down next to him.

‘Want some?’ he said. ‘I guess you’re not suffering like the rest of us. Oh yeah, and Happy Christmas.’