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She stepped onto the landing, full of confidence. ‘Last year. It was proper traumatic.’ She giggled. I hadn’t seen her for years, and she’d always stayed like a child in my mind. But she was in her late twenties now. ‘So, my mum said you needed your nails done.’ She held up a little travel box. ‘And also that you were . . . well . . . here. So I had to come straight round.’

‘Yeah. Of course. Come on in,’ I muttered weakly, stepping back into my room.

She looked around, delighted. ‘Wow. This is exactly how I remember it.’

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Nothing has changed. At all.’ My eyes skimmed the four walls again.

‘This room is genuinely smaller than your overflow wardrobe,’ she said. ‘Actually, no – it’s smaller than your downstairs toilet. Your double-door fridge, even!’ She spun round. ‘Sorry. I stalk your Instagram. Like, a lot.’

‘Yeah, I can tell.’ I managed a laugh, still curious to why she was actually here. Did she have an ulterior motive? Would she sell my location to my husband’s PI so that I could be served divorce papers after securing some juicy gossip? I hadn’t seen Claire since she was a child. Honestly, I’m not sure I’d given her one thought since I left Glasgow.

She flopped onto the bed. ‘Yeah. This place is so nineties. And not in a cool retro way.’

‘It’s taking some getting used to,’ I agreed. I watched Claire take everything in – the spider web above the door, the stains on the carpet.

‘So,’ I said, interrupting her inspection. ‘How are you? You look great! I can only remember you as a little girl.’

She stared at me. Proper stared. ‘How am I? Harri, how the hell are you, more like?’ A long exhale shot out of her. ‘And how have you managed to stay invisible for twenty-four hours when the entire world is looking for you?’

‘What?’ I said, genuinely confused.

‘Oh my God.’ She grabbed her phone. ‘Harri. TikTok. Instagram. You are everywhere. Don’t act like you don’t know – it’s only me,’ she said as she batted back her hair.

Claire opened TikTok. Didn’t even type my name, and there I was. Trending. Right at the top.

‘What the fuck?’ I gasped. ‘Because of Rupert?’

She looked at me, realised my shock was genuine, then bit her lip. ‘Wow. OK, brace yourself.’ She clicked the first video.

An American girl with neon pink hair appeared on the screen. ‘OK GUYS—’ she said loudly. ‘I take it you’ve all seen what went down with Harriette Hope – and OMG, where is she?’

My stomach dropped.

‘So for anyone who’s been living under a rock,’ the girl continued, toning down the volume, ‘Harriette is a trad-wife influencer—’

Claire’s eyes were fixed on me. I could feel my stomach jump around, trying to escape my body.

‘—whose whole brand is being the perfect wife. Like, homemade everything, perfect linen dresses, house organisation, how to keep your husband happy content—’

I covered my face.

‘But yesterday she was baking cookies on a live when she walked off-screen, and her husband and her PA walked in and basically aired their affair to the entire internet.’

I made a small noise that might’ve been a whimper and grabbed Claire’s hand.

‘She walks back in, completely oblivious, doesn’t realise the live is still going on, and now she’s missing. Like, actually missing. Her sleazeball of a husband has been trying to find her. Friends can’t get hold of her. So the question is – where is she? And did this man do something? Because I’m getting major CREEP VIBES. Thoughts?’

The video ended.

My free hand had been clamped over my mouth the entire time.

‘There’s loads more,’ Claire said, already scrolling, eager to show me. ‘You’re basically a meme now.’

My stomach cramped. I wasn’t sure if I was going to fart or shit myself – much like my dad. Maybe the stomach issues were inherited. I could perhaps blame him for that, too, I guess.

But I hadn’t intended to run away in some melodramatic fashion; I’d thought disappearing would quieten things down. Instead, I’d turned myself into a cause for public concern. I couldn’t speak.

‘Why haven’t you seen any of this?’ she asked. ‘Where’s your phone?’