‘It was always your show, Art,’ I say, gesturing to the building. ‘I thought it was mine for a while, but now I see I was just opening for you.’

A cab stops. My mother opens the door.

Art puts his hand in his pocket and grimly hands the cab driver a twenty-pound note through the open window. He is a Decent Man doing the Decent Thing.

‘Thank you, Art,’ my mother says, pushing me into the cab.

‘No, no, thank you.’ I throw his money out of the window. ‘Stop trying to be Charlie Fucking Big Potatoes.’

‘I am not trying to be Charlie Fucking Big Potatoes!’

‘Drive on!’ I say to the driver. ‘Drive on, driver, please!’

Art pats the side of the taxi.

‘Go pat something else, you patronising bastard!’

The cab drives off.

‘No more wine for you,’ my mother says. ‘Ever.’

‘You can fuck off, as well.’

‘It’s sixty quid if she soils the vehicle,’ says the driver.

‘I am not going to soil the vehicle! I love the vehicle.’

I put my hand on the deliciously cool window. It is so nice and cold and glaaarrrgggggggymmmmmmm. We drive over the Thames, where the river is swirling and churning. The city passes in bursts of grey and yellow.

‘I don’t believe them,’ my mother says. ‘This is a rushed, desperate affair. It’s all wrong. All very wrong.’

I raise my head up, which is hard. ‘How can he be playing happy families with her? Layers of duplicity!’

My mother sighs. ‘Well, darling, maybe he just hadn’t met the rich girl.’ I look at her, hurt. She continues: ‘I mean right girl.’

She laughs – and I laugh. Despite myself, and everything.

Back at the house I go up and wash my face and then I change into my pyjamas and get into bed.

My mother follows me up silently, still with her coat on. ‘What are you doing?’ she says.

‘This is an act of hibernation.’

‘It’s barely November.’

‘It’s going to be a long, cold winter.’

‘You’re just drunk, darling. I’ll make you a melba toast.’

She goes downstairs to the kitchen. I put on a nature documentary and watch it until I fall asleep.

OUTGROWN