Lucy laughs, a humourless small breath. ‘God, she did. She basically stopped eating, and she started going to the gym every day. Once she got thin enough that she was satisfied – too thin, if you ask me, but whatever – she went to an image consultant and got shown what clothes to buy and how to put on makeup and what colour to dye her hair. She came out looking like she’d been cloned in some creepy factory off the M50. I was like, “Why don’t you just wear whatever you like best?” but Ash said no. She said, “I don’t know what type he goes for – except my mum’s type, and I can’t look anything like her or he’ll suss me. So I have to look generic. I have to be someone who any guy in the world would think was pretty, so even if he’s not actually attracted to me, being with me will be too much of an ego-boost to resist. I’ll have plenty of time afterwards to figure out what I like.” I mean . . .’ Lucy’s hands fly up in frustration. ‘What was I supposed to say to that?’

Part of me is actually growing some respect for Aislinn Murray. The core idea is idiotic shite, but the way she went about it: fair play to her. She wasn’t the limp blob I pictured on that first day in her house, or the pushed-around kid I felt sorry for a minute ago. She was training, taking her time and doing whatever it took, to do some pushing of her own.

‘That’s some pretty obsessive stuff right there,’ I say. ‘Didn’t you worry about her? That she was getting way too wrapped up in this?’

‘Of course I did. When I thought she needed to start going after what she wanted, this wasn’t what I had in mind. She spent like a year and a half trying to turn herself into what she thought some total stranger would fancy. It was insane.’

‘Did you say that to her?’