I make my way into the tiny kitchen that smells slightly rotten, as though the bin needs emptying.

Carly’s leaning against the old-fashioned gas cooker, fingers flying over the keypad of her phone. As soon as she sees me she tosses her mobile onto the worktop and pulls me close to her and for a few seconds I lose myself in her embrace as though I hadn’t last seen her a couple of days ago. Carly is the one I’m closer to now. She’s the one who stayed while Marie travelled the country, choosing draughty theatres over a proper home. Chameleoning herself into different characters, all of them as beautiful and as damaged as her. There are no happy ever afters in the dark productions she takes part in.

I shuck off my coat and unwind my scarf, piling them on top of Carly’s denim jacket.

‘I’ll make some tea.’ Marie fills the kettle as though this is just another social visit. My eyes meet Carly’s and she raises her eyebrows.

‘I’ve brought my own cup.’ I pull a mug wrapped in plastic from my bag and pass it to her. I’m poised to defend myself but she doesn’t ask what’s triggered my contamination OCD this time (although it’s probably obvious), or how long it’s been going on, and I’m glad. I’m not here to be judged.

A phone rings, the sound coming from the top of the fridge.

‘Do you want me to get it?’ I’m nearest.

‘No!’ Marie reaches for her phone and switches it off.

‘You didn’t have to do that. It might have been a job offer?’

‘It wasn’t. There’s some biscuits somewhere, Leah. If you can find them.’

I rummage around on the worktops, looking for snacks I will not eat.

Marie’s flat is as chaotic and cluttered as her life. Washing-up piled in the sink. Every surface messy. Tubes of half-used make-up litter the small table in the kitchen where she eats her meals for one, a box of L’Oréal hair dye pokes out of the overflowing bin; it’s the complete opposite of my minimalism. Once my twin and I shared everything but now we don’t even look the same, I think, taking in her newly bleached hair, cropped close to her head. I still keep mine long. Although I’m only twenty-eight, threads of grey are weaving into my natural red but I’m determined not to start colouring it. Every few minutes Marie runs her hand over the back of her neck as though reassuring herself that her pigtails are gone. That no one can grab them again. It’s as though she wants to be somebody else – somebody different – and I understand that, I’ve felt it too. But we can’t run away from ourselves, can we? The things we’ve done. Years of therapy have taught me that.

‘Is Archie okay?’ Carly’s face shines as she mentions her nephew. It’s such a shame she’s never allowed anyone to get close to her. She’s never had a family of her own. It’s too much responsibility, she had said once when I’d asked her if she wanted children.