I never went out with them, politely declining their offers to come and ‘get wasted’. Instead, I took care of them when they returned in the early hours, vomiting after too much rum and Coke. In return for the care that I’d become accustomed to giving, they shared their food with me, and their clothes and shoes and make-up. It was a stunning way to live; being appreciated was a whole new world to me.

I got a job in the uni bar, and having my own money was another breathtaking experience. I didn’t have to pay for heat or gas or electricity or water. I could buy food – and I didn’t have to go to the supermarket near closing time to get the reduced stale bread or vegetables that were already on the turn. I could go to cafés and restaurants and eat freshly cooked hamburgers or melted cheese toasties.

My life and my body filled out to proportions I had never dared to dream of. I had spent so long living in a controlled environment that with no responsibilities, I went crazy. I wasn’t accustomed to living this way, and it scared me as much as it thrilled me. I needed to claw back some control, starting with the way I looked.

I didn’t have enough willpower to deny myself food, but I found how to purge it from my system. Soon enough, despite hating myself a little, I found a way to control one small area of my life.

For the first term, I kept mostly to myself. I observed this strange new world and the people who inhabited it: the goths with their dark clothes, studs and piercings; the artsy girls in their flowing bohemian dresses, the sexy, pouting students; the tomboys and the rockers. Back home, if you didn’t have the right clothes or the newest brand of trainers, you were a loser. It didn’t work that way at uni. Here, you could be anyone you wanted to be.

I looked at my own clothes, the jeans and unlabelled jerseys and jumpers, and thought about who I wanted to be. It wasn’t a difficult decision. I wanted to be something that back home, could never, ever happen. I wanted to be sophisticated, classy and chic. A million miles away from the girl I actually was.

I scoured charity shops for cast-off clothes from the rich women of Edinburgh. I borrowed from my roommates, who with their double-barrelled surnames never had to pretend. Time and time again I thought of Rebecca Lavery, the way she had escaped and rebranded herself into a poised, beautiful young woman. The way I had fought her – even without her knowledge – to take the place here that was rightfully mine. I remembered the way she walked, the way she wore her clothes, the glances she gave, the slightly snooty air. I put my mind to it; I became Rebecca.