‘Are you OK?’

‘It smells of her.’

WPC Vernon’s maternal face showed her compassion. ‘Smell is a really powerful sense. Doctors use it to try to wake up people in a coma. Apparently newly cut grass is a favourite evocative smell.’

She wanted me to know that I wasn’t overreacting. She was sympathetic and intuitive and I was grateful that she was there with me.

The wig box had every type of hair, and I presumed they were used not only for reconstructions of missing people but also for the victims of violent crimes. They made me think of a collection of scalps and I felt nauseous as I rummaged through them. WPC Vernon noticed.

‘Here, let me try. What’s Tess’s hair like?’

‘Long, she hardly ever cuts it, so it’s ragged round the edges. And it’s very shiny.’

‘And the colour?’

Pantone number PMS 167, I thought immediately, but other people don’t know the colours of the world by their pantone numbers, so instead I replied, ‘Caramel.’ And actually your hair has always made me think of caramel. The inside of a Rolo, to be precise, liquidly gleaming. WPC Vernon found a wig that was reasonably similar and nylon-shiny. I forced myself to put it on over my own neatly cut hair, my fingers recoiling. I thought we were finished. But WPC Vernon was a perfectionist. ‘Does she wear make-up?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Would you mind taking yours off?’

Did I hesitate? ‘Of course not,’ I replied. But I did mind. Even when I woke up, I would have pink lip and cheek stain applied from the previous night. At the small institutional sink, with dirty coffee cups balanced on the rim, I washed off my make-up. I turned and caught sight of you. I was stabbed by love. Moments later I saw that it was just my own reflection caught in a full-length mirror. I went closer and saw myself, scruffy and exhausted. I needed make-up, properly cut clothes and a decent haircut. You don’t need any of those to look beautiful.