‘Thanks, Mama,’ I say, making actual heart eyes at the steaming roti on the plate in front of me, but when I reach for it, she pulls her hand back and nods at the sink.

‘Wash your hands.’

I do as I’m told with a theatrical groan.

‘Don’t be so dramatic, Ashana,’ she tells me, watching as I head over to the sink. ‘Do you know how many germs you’ve come into contact with today? You may as well eat this off the pavement. Come.’

I hold my hands out to her and, content that they’re clean, she finally hands over the plate and pads back to the stove.

‘What’s for dinner?’ I ask.

It’s Friday so I already know what it is; pulling a face when she says, ‘Fish curry.’

‘Yum!’ I say, tearing off a piece of the roti and popping it into my mouth.

‘It’s good for you.’

We used to have fish and chips on a Friday night. It was the one indulgence my mother allowed herself, but then my father had to stop working at the hospital so now it’s fish curry.

‘How was your day?’ I ask, watching as she holds her palm over the tawa. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘Not really. That bloody dog next door has been barking its head off all day.’

She sighs and she sounds tired – really tired – and I feel bad for being an ungrateful brat about the fish curry, which she’s probably been making for hours while Adara and I have been trying on lipstick.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, watching as she takes another ball of dough from under the damp kitchen towel next to the stove and rolls it into a circle using the thin wooden belna that used to belong to my grandmother.

‘Between him and that cat two doors down . . .’

‘Dorito?’ I ask with a frown. ‘What did he ever do to you?’

‘He hates me. He always hisses at me when I walk past.’

‘Cats can sense evil, can’t they?’

‘It’s a shame they don’t sense disrespectful daughters.’

She arches an eyebrow at me and it’s quite a feat given that her eyebrows have all but disappeared after years of over-plucking, but she manages to make her point.

‘You’re just jealous because he likes me, but he doesn’t like you,’ I tell her with a smug smile.

‘He only likes you because you stroke him every time you go past. Why do you think I got you to wash your hands as soon as you got in?’ she says, pointing the belna at me.

She’s right, of course. I did tickle him between the ears as I passed him on Miss Larson’s doormat.

I don’t tell her that, though. ‘He just likes me because I fixed his boiler.’

‘When did you fix Miss Larson’s boiler?’