‘Where are you going?’ I asked when she got up.

‘I’m staying at David’s,’ she said in a thin voice, looking away. ‘You can stay here. I’ll bring your stuff and take you to the airport on Monday. OK?’

Oddly enough, I wasn’t perturbed at all by the thought of my best friend shacking up with my long-term partner a mere fortnight after we’d broken up. I was more concerned – amused, even – by the thought of Meg discovering that he liked to spend weekends holed up in the spare bedroom with violent video games and a bag of weed, or his weird thing about digging half an inch of wax out of each ear, only to leave a ceremonious row of used cotton buds lined up along the sink instead of chucking them in the bin.

That night, it is safe to say I had the best sleep I’d had for months.

The next day Meg turned up with ham and carrots, and a large suitcase of clothes I’d forgotten I even had. I was pleased to find that I now had seven tops, all with long sleeves to cover the ugly gashes along each of my forearms. The skin between my wrists and elbow was still raw and puckered, and the scars resembled the botched job I made once of repairing the hem of an old quilt. I didn’t want Gaia or Coco to see that. Plus, my cuts still hurt like hell and sleeves meant I could wear padded dressings without anyone asking awkward questions.

Meg also packed some of my old make-up – she must have really dug through my gear to find that – and an old bottle of Body Shop perfume, deodorant, some earrings, underwear, towels, a hairbrush, painkillers, a pretty pair of white leather sandals I’d never worn, my best dress, some of my favourite books and – luckiest of all – my laptop charger. I was stoked. She’d really put a lot of thought into what I’d need.

‘I’m going to take the rest of your things to the charity shop, OK?’ she said. ‘It would be weird, moving in with Dave and having all your stuff around.’

Mum phoned while we were driving to the airport. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks and she was eager to share with me the latest plot developments in EastEnders, but I knew I had to be firm. I took a deep breath, recalled the epiphany I’d had, and said, ‘Mum, I’m going on holiday for a while, and I won’t be able to talk to you. So I love you, but for now I’m saying … au revoir.’

‘Holiday?’ she spat on the other end of the line. ‘Where do you think you’re off to, eh?’

‘I don’t think I’m off anywhere,’ I said, curtly. ‘I’m headed to Norway, as it happens, and for quite some time.’

‘Norway?’