‘Lucy,’ I whispered, ‘it’s one o’clock in the morning. You should turn that off and get some sleep now.’

‘Not yet.’

I took a step into the room and saw that there were tears on her face, shining in the iPhone’s cold glow. ‘What’s the matter, Luce?’

She turned onto her side, away from me, the phone still inches from her face.

I sat down on the edge of her bed and put a hand on her shoulder. Her skin felt hot, despite the air-conditioned chill of the room. I made a mental note to check she was using enough suntan lotion tomorrow.

‘What’s happened, Luce?’

‘Nothing, Mum. It’s fine.’

‘Doesn’t look fine. Is something bothering you? Something the boys said earlier?’

‘No.’

‘You know you can talk to me about anything, don’t you?’

She nodded and sniffed, wiping tears away with the heel of her hand. ‘I know, Mum.’

‘Anything at all. Doesn’t matter what it is.’

She half-turned towards me but wouldn’t look me in the eye. ‘Even if it’s something . . . bad?’

‘Especially if it’s something bad.’

‘Something awful?’

I took a tissue from the box on the bedside table and handed it to her. There was a lot about her that I didn’t know – more and more each day, it seemed. ‘I can help you, Lucy. Whatever it is.’

She wiped her eyes with the tissue. I waited, letting the silence stretch out between us.

‘Sometimes I hate myself,’ she said quietly.

I felt an ache, deep in my chest. Fingers squeezing my heart. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m . . . worthless. I’m a horrible person.’

‘Of course you’re not, Lucy! What’s happened?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Can’t do anything about it now, anyway.’

‘About what?’ I said gently. ‘Is it a boy?’

She said nothing.

‘Is it one of your friends? Being mean?’ I was constantly amazed by the capacity of teenage girls to be horrible to each other. Girls who were supposed to be friends but who seemed to delight in making each other miserable. Was I like that too, as a teenager? Did we still carry it with us now, this capacity to spite and sting and wound those closest to us, hidden under a thin veneer of adult civility?

Lucy gave a tiny shake of her head, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

‘Is it Poppy Monroe again?’ I said. Poppy bloody Monroe, as Sean and I referred to her, who seemed to be involved in every falling-out, every fight, every argument that rippled across their friendship group on a daily basis. ‘What’s she said this time?’