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My dad reappeared at the top step like an angry bouncer, finger already pointing.

‘Harri’s here for the next few weeks and nobody else knows that. Got it? So if one single person finds out, I’ll know exactly whose mouth’s been yappin’. She doesn’t have to talk about anything that’s happened because it’s none of your fuckin’ business, Sharon. Got it?’

There was a brief silence. Sharon looked like she’d been verbally slapped with a frying pan.

‘Aye,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’ve got it, Harry. I was just happy to see her.’

She spun on her heel and marched back towards her own front door, radiating pure offence. Halfway there, she stopped.

‘Wee Claire’s always asking for you,’ she called back, clearly unable to resist one final contribution. ‘She’ll be happy you’re home, Harri.’

Claire was Sharon’s daughter. I used to babysit her when I was a teenager, so Sharon could head off to the miners’ pub on a Saturday night. I smiled despite myself, thinking of the sweet, timid child who had somehow survived that household.

‘God, what age is Claire now?’ I asked.

‘Twenty-eight. She does nails and eyebrows. I could send her round to do yours one night?’

Of course, this had turned into a sales pitch. Though I could hardly blame the woman.

I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’d love that. I’d better go in, it’s freezing. It was nice seeing you, Sharon.’

‘You too, hen,’ she said curtly, before disappearing inside and slamming the door with the force of a woman who was absolutely furious.

I went back into Mum and Dad’s and found my dad on the sofa, watching the telly like he hadn’t just emotionally annihilated a neighbour.

‘How was your special green coffee, hen?’ he asked.

I glanced down at my matcha, took a sip, then looked at him. ‘Dad . . . you were really rude to Sharon there,’ I said, trying and failing not to laugh.

‘Awk, no wonder. She’s a fucking pest. Always has been,’ he muttered, eyes still on the screen.

I burst out laughing. He finally turned to look at me, baffled for half a second, then shrugged and joined in. Soon we were both belly-laughing on the sofa, me wiping tears from my face while he shook his head like he’d won some kind of moral victory but didn’t quite know how.

That evening, after Mum came back from the community centre, I had a bath, washed my hair and lay across the bed staring at the ceiling, hoping it might offer some guidance.

It didn’t.

I couldn’t stop thinking about going home. I regretted throwing away my phone, but at the same time, I knew Rupert would be beside himself wondering where I was. There was absolutely no chance he’d ever consider looking for me in Scotland. Since we first met, I’d always downplayed where I was from. He’d never been to my parents’ house and had only met my dad a handful of times.

I considered messaging Jay for an update, then remembered he also cut Rupert’s hair, and I didn’t fancy causing a confidentiality incident. I trusted that cunt – Rupert, I mean – as far as I could throw him.

‘Harri!’ Mum’s voice screeched from downstairs. ‘Someone at the door for you!’

She said it too casually, like she was asking me to put the kettle on.

My heart ricocheted.

‘Just head up, first bedroom at the top of the stairs,’ I heard Mum say.

No one knew I was here. No one was supposed to know I was here. What was she doing? I cracked the door open a smidge, like I was in a hostage negotiation, ready to slam it shut if Rupert, a reporter, or the concept of shame appeared on the landing. Instead, a small figure with long dark hair popped into view.

‘Harriette!’

I blinked. ‘Claire?’

She grinned, dimples blazing, like she hadn’t just almost given me a heart attack. I opened the door properly, recognising her now.

‘Christ,’ I said. ‘When did you grow up?’