‘Nice juxtaposition, Seb.’ I overtook a rusty Beetle.

‘What do you mean?’ He frowned.

I nodded at the radio. ‘Care in the Community and my mum.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that, babe. Sorry. It was a bit crass, I suppose. I just – it just reminded me, that’s all.’

There was a pause. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ I muttered eventually.

‘No, of course not.’ Seb lit a cigarette for me in a smooth gesture that reminded me a bit of Cary Grant. I inhaled deeply and opened the window a bit, the car suddenly full of white noise from the road.

‘What do you want to know?’ I asked quietly.

He craned to hear me. ‘Well, whatever you want to tell me, I suppose.’ He raised his voice against the shudder of the wind.

‘Which isn’t much.’

‘But you – you did say – your words were – she was mad.’

‘She was severely depressed. Not mad. Nowadays, I think they call it being bipolar. It’s quite fashionable, apparently.’

‘Like manic depression, you mean?’

‘I guess so. But back then, they didn’t seem to be able to get a handle on it. She was misdiagnosed.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘She was institutionalised. Because she was misdiagnosed, they gave her the wrong medication and it didn’t agree with her. It – it kind of made it worse. Turned her into a – a sort of zombie.’

I felt him trying to find the right words. I sensed he wanted to comfort me, but didn’t know how. I withdrew into myself. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie. I really am,’ he said eventually.

‘Thanks. So am I.’ I threw the cigarette-end out of the window. It was whipped against the glass for a moment, a tiny glowing spearhead. ‘She was – in the end, she became –’ the word still stuck in my gullet, even now, ‘suicidal.’

My phone rang. Saved by the bell: this time I answered it, balancing it precariously between ear and shoulder. It was Sally.

‘Where are you? Charlie’s going ballistic.’

‘I’m ill.’ I cast a guilty look at Seb, who raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Tell him I’ll be in tomorrow, would you?’

‘You do know the Dumped show is on Wednesday, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Sal. I scheduled the bloody thing in the first place. Look, I’ll see you early tomorrow. I’m not feeling too good right now.’

Seb didn’t mention my mother again. But when we passed the crash site, marked with a plaque, bouquets of flowers and photographs still festooning the grass bank, he put one hand gently on my leg as he gazed out of the window.

I had last seen my mother when I was thirteen. Swamped by adolescent hormones and utterly confused by circumstance, I must have seemed hideously ungracious. In truth, I was just lonely and more than a little lost; longing for my mother’s love and unable to express it.