‘Excuse me,’ I said, and in my mind I was poised to tell them a story about losing my purse, and could they point me in the direction of a hostel? My mouth, however, had other ideas. ‘I’m homeless and I’ve nowhere to go and two months ago I tried to kill myself so will you help me please I’m so lonely,’ my mouth said, and I started to cry.

Within a minute I was being asked to get into the police car, and within ten minutes I was standing outside a women’s refuge.

The refuge had a big common area with sofas and a hand-painted mural of a forest across three walls, and a kitchen for us to eat together. The dorms were all full of women and children, but the lady in charge said I could spend the night on a sofa.

I ended up spending the week there. It felt nice, like a little community of bruised, terrified, and addicted women. Jill ran the place with a team of volunteers. Jill was large and had bright red hair piled on top of her head and she always wore a black vest top with a swishy black skirt with purple Dr. Martens. There was a massive garden out the back with deck chairs, and Jill told me every day to sit out there and ‘clear my mind’. A doctor visited and I told her I needed a repeat prescription of the medicine I’d been on. She frowned and suggested I try a lower dose of something that was apparently ‘less taxing’ on the brain. Another woman – a volunteer at a charity shop – came around with clothes, which was great as I literally had only the clothes on my back. I picked out a black trouser suit with a white shirt for my interview, and she found me some sensible shoes.

Wednesday came and I got on the train to London for the interview. I was super nervous, but Jill put some make-up on me and insisted that I look at myself in the mirror. I was surprised. My eyes always looked sallow, but she’d blotted out the dark circles with concealer and added mascara and a flick of kohl just above my eyelashes. A dab of bronzer made me look healthy, and on my lips she dabbed a demure coral lipstick which apparently made my eyes ‘pop’. I found this to be a rather distressing mental image, so Jill clarified: ‘It means your lovely brown eyes look like melted chocolate. OK?’ Melted chocolate can only ever be a pleasant thing.

I also washed my hair for the first time in weeks – months, maybe – and she used a hairdryer and scorching-hot tongs to bring it to life.

‘There you are, my lovely,’ she said, spritzing my hair with something called ‘gunk’. ‘Just like Penélope Cruz, you are.’