Today, he is teaching me to rumba. I’ve put on an old pair of Karen’s dance shoes and I love how simply putting on the heels changes the way I move. Jesse puts his hands on my waist as he stands behind me, and we look at ourselves in the mirror as he shows me, how to move my hips in what’s apparently called a pendular movement. He counts as he reminds me of the moves over and over, ONE two three four, ONE two three four, ONE two three four. He opens a cupboard full of colourful material and chucks a circle of shiny red fabric towards me – something called a practice skirt – which I put on over my leggings. I twirl and shimmy and it flares around me as the music plays; he takes my hands and we move in time together. It’s such fun. Jesse is so patient and I love being down here. When the music is on and I’m dancing, I don’t need to think about all the other stuff. Whether I’m Anna or Laura, or someone else entirely. Whether there are journalists outside. Whether I will ever feel like Karen is my mum. Or whether it was me running off which made Dad die. I can forget about it all while I’m dancing.

Later we are sitting together on the ratty old sofa which is in the dance studio, drinking Coke and eating cake which Karen made yesterday. It must be late – I can see from the chink of window near the ceiling at pavement level that it is getting dark. I’m both exhausted and exhilarated by the dancing and Jesse and I are sitting in companionable silence.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Jesse asks suddenly.

I nod and swallow my mouthful of cake. ‘Of course.’

‘Do you really not remember anything?’ he asks.

‘About …’ I prompt, feeling a sudden stab of unease. Does he think I am making my amnesia up? Why would I want to do that?

‘About before you were taken,’ he says. I sit back in my chair. ‘It’s just, it seems so weird that you were here with us for four years and you don’t remember me, or Mum or Dad, or our house …’

‘Well yeah, I guess it might seem strange, but then again, I don’t remember much at all, even about stuff that happened later,’ I say. ‘I remember my house – I mean where I lived after I was taken – and my … the man who I thought was my dad, but not much else.’

I have a sudden flash of what might be a memory of lying with someone on a blanket and feeling weirdly excited. But it’s so vague and might not even be a memory for all I know, though it’s happened a few times now.