She was such a fool.

She’d make herself a cup of tea although she knew her spasming stomach would likely throw it back up.

While the kettle boiled she checked her phone – two missed calls from George. Her body went hot at the thought that Leah could have picked up his call. What had she become? Secrets. Lies. She was an awful, terrible person. Her skin itched. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet.

What was she going to do?

If she wanted to repair her fractured relationship with Leah and Carly she couldn’t push them into doing the interview. Understandably, they were shocked that Marie would even suggest going on a live TV show to rip off the scab they were always picking at, knowing how raw it would be underneath. And Marie couldn’t explain it to them, no matter how much she wanted to.

Carly was partly right – initially, Marie had been attracted to the large sum of money on offer. God knows she needed it. She owed her dealer a small fortune. Two weeks ago he’d pushed her up against the wall in the alley next to the Dog and Duck, the slime coating her back, skin grazing her elbows as he pinned her wrists against the rough bricks. Rain plastered her hair to her scalp as he pressed his mouth against her ear. She could smell his breath, coffee and smoke. Panic cut off her air supply. Just being back in an alley again could do that to her, even disregarding what he wanted to do to her.

‘Fourteen days. You ’ave fourteen days to pay or I’m gonna break yer legs. Yer face.’

‘I can’t.’

He shoved his hand roughly between her legs. ‘Lucky yer got sommat you can sell then, ain’t it?’

To her eternal shame, Marie hadn’t fought back. She’d let him shove his fingers inside her knickers before she dropped to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut as she heard him unzip his jeans.

Afterwards he’d tossed a foil wrap on the floor and she’d scrambled for it like a stray dog tossed a scrap of meat.

‘Don’t fink this means I’ve knocked any off your debt, yer skank. I were just trying yer out.’ Her pinched her cheeks between his thumb and index finger. ‘Yer ain’t all that.’ He pushed her roughly and left Marie face down in a filthy puddle, the feel of his fingers still inside her, the sour taste of him in her mouth.

She dragged herself up and stuffed the wrap inside her bra before stumbling home. Back in the flat she didn’t strip off her sodden clothes, she didn’t cram her tainted knickers in the bin, she didn’t even shower. It wouldn’t have made any difference, she’d not felt clean for years. Instead she waited for the hit and wished that alcohol was still enough to numb her.

The following day – despite her good intentions to stay home, ride out the withdrawal symptoms – Marie found herself applying eyeliner with a shaking hand, slicking red gloss on the lips she was prepared to wrap around a stranger for a crumpled note. She stared at herself in the mirror. A stranger stared back. Marie hadn’t known who she was since she was eight years old. She was a keeper of secrets. She could do this. She always was an actress.