Careful not to move when Clare finally stopped talking and her breathing slowed to indicate sleep, Faye repeated the girl’s words to herself.

“I just want to be able to look at myself and feel proud, happy. So others can feel the same.”

Faye tried to picture herself in front of a mirror. The full-length one Derek had installed inside his cupboard door would do. The thought of standing there made Faye flinch, pinch her eyes shut and turn her head. She didn’t want to have to look at the depleted version of herself she was sure she’d see. Like an old cloth, wrung dry and, twisted and knotted, abandoned in the sun, what she saw was brittle, faded, worthless. There was nothing about the idea that made her proud or happy. Faye felt only shame.

During her early days at GNS, she’d dreamed of training others as George had trained her, passing on what she knew and loved. She wanted to see others uncover unexpected things about themselves and discover skills they didn’t know they possessed. She remembered the thrill of it. But Faye never returned to work. Instead, she’d stayed home, become dependent on Derek and, as he told her, “Morphed into an overly sensitive soul, prone to paranoia, and also forgetful and easily confused.”

What had happened to make her that way? Had she really changed that much? Did Derek exaggerate? Or was he entirely mistaken, as her mother had argued during one of Faye’s last conversations with her in the hospice.

“Hello, Mom,” said Faye when Veronica had opened her eyes to find her daughter sitting at her bedside.

Veronica blinked. “At last. I was wondering when you’d come. It’s been so long.”

“I was here yesterday. We shared one of those cupcakes from Zurelli’s that you enjoy. Remember?”

Her mother tapped the side of her head with a finger. “Tsk. Of course. It’s the worst thing about getting old; you can’t get anything to stick.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Faye took one of her mother’s hands in hers, glancing at its translucent skin. “You’ve done well. Even at my age, I can’t get things to stick.”

“Says who?” Veronica squinted at her. “Derek?”

Faye smiled, but her mother drew her balding eyebrows together.

“You mustn’t let him bully you. It’s unpleasant and it worries me. Greatly.”

“Oh, he doesn’t, Mom,” said Faye, patting her mother’s hand.

“But he does, Faye. He does. And is he ever wrong? I mean, he says you’re forgetful and, what’s the word? Erm, delusional? Yes, delusional.” She shook her head. “And when he’s wrong, obviously wrong, does he apologise? Ever?”

“We don’t argue. I don’t want to argue.”