I clutch my drink, feeling sick and empty. Never tell a dog lover you’re scared of dogs, that’s what I’ve learnt.

I message him instead:

Just to let you know I’m okay and thanks for the lift.

I add an x and then delete it again.

After a few moments he replies:

Thanks for letting me know.

The whisky is mellow in my mouth and I can feel the beat of the drums in my bones. I put my phone back in my bag. I’m an idiot. Knowing that doesn’t stop me from hating myself. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, with David and me.

I’m never going to be real enough for him and he deserves someone genuine, not someone like me who hides behind clothes.

LOT 23

Black leather biker jacket, Topshop, 1990s, zip front, stud detail, size 12.

Next morning, on my way to the bathroom, worrying about Moss and embarrassed about David, I fall over the footstool that my mother has moved from its usual place in front of the television.

As I shower, I can see she’s slowly reclaiming the flat for herself and edging me out. Her cosmetics take up most of the bathroom shelves.

I can’t find the cereal because she’s rearranged the contents of the kitchen cupboards so that nothing is where I think it is anymore. I’m the apologetic guest who’s outstayed her welcome.

She’s right, though. It is time I moved out and stood on my own two feet. Being dependent on them is a lot more stressful than getting a regular job and it’s a high price to pay for sleeping on a sofa when I could find a flat-share.

A regular job … this is the way I look at it. I’ve given self-employment a shot, but it’s time to move forward. I come to my decision; the mature option, the only one I can make. I’m giving up the stall.

I wonder how Moss is. It’s too early to call Dinah because hopefully she’s catching up on her sleep. In an hour’s time I’ll be facing David with some kind of explanation for my wild dash into the night. So I start googling Ideal Flat-Shares, when I hear the friendly sound of Lucy walking around over my head.

Like a vengeful fury, my mother bursts in from the hall with a Super Mop and bangs furiously on the ceiling. The footsteps above us go silent and I can imagine Lucy tiptoeing around up there, wondering what exactly my mother’s on.

‘Morning,’ I say.

My mother hasn’t got time for pleasantries. ‘What kind of flooring has she got up there?’

‘Ooh, er, I’m not sure,’ I reply vaguely.

‘It’s supposed to be carpeted. Is it carpeted?’

‘Yes, carpeted,’ I lie and change the subject. ‘Are you and Dad getting a divorce?’