I catch up with my mother and she’s predictably furious with me for allowing David to ‘put her down’. I have learnt from experience that it’s no use trying to be rational when she’s in this state. My mother’s feelings take priority, even if those feelings have arisen from nothing more than a misunderstanding or a failure in communication. The only way for me to deal with it is to freeze and wait it out and listen, penitent, to everything that she accuses me of, like my failure to succeed, or my failure to understand her, or my failure to give her the credit she deserves, or my failure to offer her the protection that she needs.

I’m not wearing the right outfit for this; I need Eighties shoulder pads, power dressing, not this cute pale blue dress with choirboy sleeves which makes me feel more like a doll than a dolly bird.

‘Hey! Fern! Fern! Fern Banks!’ David’s bellowing to me. ‘Come back! Customers!’

‘Sorry, Mum, I’ve got to go back.’ I pluck at the button on my dress apologetically. ‘We’re short-staffed.’ I hurry back and it’s true, I have got customers.

Now that I’m back, my heart is pounding. I can’t look at David. I feel as if he’s seeing me naked for the first time.

I retreat to the back of the shop and call my father urgently. ‘What’s going on with you and Mum?’

‘Just let her stay for a few days,’ he says.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Nothing’s happening. We need a break from each other, that’s all, darling.’

‘Can’t she go to a spa or something?’ I ask desperately.

‘She wants to be with you. She thinks you’ll understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘Understand her, I suppose.’

‘I do understand her, but it doesn’t make her any easier to live with.’

‘Do your best,’ he says unhelpfully.

LOT 21

Burberry Classic trench coat, beige, 1960s, size M.

When I get back home that evening, my mother has changed into a blue shift dress and she’s still tight-lipped from earlier.

Determined to do my best to understand, as instructed by my father, I start the conversation. ‘So,’ I say decisively, going straight into the kitchen and opening a bottle of wine. I’m hungry, but she’s eaten all the Marmite thins. ‘What are your plans, exactly?’

‘Fern, I need my own space,’ she declares. ‘I’m not used to having your father around twenty-four hours a day.’

‘To be fair, there’s more space at home than here.’ I can see she’s put her suitcase in my bedroom, so I’ll be sleeping on the sofa for the foreseeable future. The wine is warm and cheap and I can trace its fiery path into my guts.