‘I don’t know yet.’ I think of John Peacock calling me into his office, the humiliation of standing in front of the headmaster and being unable to stop the tears running down my face, his visible awkwardness as he addressed the concerns of my colleagues over my mental well-being, and the complaint of a student – Sally Brightman, daughter of a governor, of course – after that awful incident when I’d nearly slapped her in front of the whole class. I never would have done it, I’d told myself afterwards, but I knew it was too close for comfort. I never used to let them rile me like that. But then lots of things in my life weren’t as they used to be, and it seemed Patrick’s actions had finally broken something in me.

‘Look, I don’t want to pry into your personal life, but it’s clear you’re going through a tough time, and I don’t like to see my staff burn out,’ Peacock had said. ‘It’s nearly exam season, term’s just about over. Would it be useful for you to have a sabbatical next year? Have a breather, sort things out? You can start right now; I can find cover for your final classes this term. I’ll hold your job open for a year. You’re a long-serving member of staff and we don’t want to lose you. What do you say?’

I knew it wasn’t really a question.

Maggie picked me up a week later and took me back to her place in Bath. I’d called her first because I knew she was the most able to pick up the pieces of my broken life and attempt to put me back together again. My fairy godmother. If only she could wave a wand and make everything all right. I can picture her now, probably pottering about the garden, pruning flowers, forgetting next to which bush she’d left the cup of Earl Grey she made herself half an hour ago, her mind already on her next theatre job. The cat will be stalking birds in the flowerbeds, or, if it’s too hot and he can’t be bothered, he’ll be flaked out on the cool soil, a slight movement in his tail his only response should Maggie call his name.

The thought comforts me. A familiar scene, carried out repeatedly for years, unchanged by whatever else is happening in the world. The Middle East in turmoil, Europe voting in populist leaders, my life turned on its head… but Maggie will still be deadheading the dahlias. That’s why I went to her after Peacock shepherded me away from the school, and not to Dad, caught up in his own web of denial and grief, who refused to talk to me about everything that had happened to our family.