I stare at the hand poking through the letterbox. It is the hand of a dame. Long nails painted pale blue, gold rings, an impatient flutter of the fingers. The hand retreats.

‘JENNIFER, DARLING! OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR!’

‘Hard to tell,’ I say.

‘Hadn’t we better let her in?’ says Sid. I see my mother’s power has worked its way under the door and into their hearts, like fungus.

I look up to Sid and Moon.

‘Let her in,’ says Moon.

I move towards the front door. I hesitate just before opening it.

Oh god. Can I do this? If I allow her to step over this threshold I don’t know what it will mean. I should never have given her an address for Christmas cards, that much is evident now. I never felt obliged to invite her here. She almost ruined my education. This is my house.

I unlock the door. Open it.

A punky feather cut, cheap platinum. Tight jeans and a little frou-frou top. Bangles up her arm, loose then lathed, her skin goose-fleshed in the October air. Gold earrings. A hologram eye pendant round her neck, winking as she moves. Mascara, liner, gloss and froth. A laugh like a splat.

My mother, everyone. Everyone, my mother.

‘Jenny! I thought you were going to leave me there all day. Are you compos mentis?’

‘I was.’

‘What have you done to your hair?’

‘It was an impulse thing.’

‘Is that a black eye?’

‘Sorry, what do you want here?’

She motions to a man on the street, next to a large hire van. ‘It’s fine. Just give me five mins.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A driver.’

‘Five mins for what?’

‘You not going to invite me in?’

I step back and she walks through. ‘Well, look at this little place! It’s even smaller than you described!’

‘I’ve sent you photos.’

‘Those tidbits are never the full story though, eh?’

I watch where her hands go, what she touches.

‘Oh!’ she says, looking up the stairs. ‘You must be the lodgers. Who knew so many people could fit in such a small space.’ She looks around the hallway, assessing. ‘Well, I hope you’ve all made alternative arrangements.’

‘What?’

My mother looks at me. ‘I came as soon as I could.’

‘What do you mean?’

She looks at the walls. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘I’ve got my whole hall covered with her articles. That first piece she did for that supermarket magazine. They put her on the cover.’

Budget Wedding Dresses – Happy Ever After or Just a Disaster? ran the header. A question immediately answered by the ill-fitting dress on my torso, and also, unfortunately, by the magazine’s red masthead, which leaked, and bled into my face, making me pink as a ham. I left the magazine soon after. I couldn’t face the canteen.