If I did have a secret camp, fabulous, imaginary friend, I suspect they too would emerge regally, from a cloud of smoke. But they would be on a golden throne, not an armchair that has yellow sponge bursting out of one side, like a popped pimple. They would be wearing a sequinned jacket, not a vest and a cardigan that appears to be made out of the same fabric as the carpet. And they would say ‘Imogen, Babe! You’re here!’ and not ‘Your mother’s out.’

‘Hi, Dad!’ I stoop to kiss him on the cheek, breathing through my mouth. He smells. It makes me feel ashamed of him, and ashamed of myself for minding. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Go on then.’

I drop my rucksack by the foot of the stairs and pad to the kitchen, over shouts of ‘I better not trip over that later.’ Fat chance. That would require you to get up. I give myself a little shake. Try harder, Imogen. Be nice. You can be nice until bedtime.

Dad is muttering through the hiss of the kettle. ‘Heard you were on telly. How much did you get for that, then?’

Fuck’s sake. ‘I don’t get paid, I was promoting the website.’ Why does Dad have three different golf themed mugs? And one that says Latte All Day? This is a man who once called me a ‘stuck-up cow’ for drinking a flat white.

‘Don’t forget, three sugars.’

‘But I don’t think…’ I hold my breath and do the emotional maths. Apparently, the doctor said Dad is supposed to cut down on sugar, but I’m not sure I have the energy to explain this, again. Or to cope with the furious fallout when he doesn’t get what he wants. ‘Coming right up!’

Dad takes his Tee Time mug from me and slurps, wordlessly. This is a compliment. He has found nothing to complain about. A long minute passes. Then another.

‘So!’ I say brightly. ‘Have you…’

He holds his hand up. ‘Shhhh, this is crucial.’ He turns up the volume on the TV. Football. His favourite. I think someone is taking a corner for Chelsea. I hold my breath, and he groans. ‘Christ! What was he thinking? I could have done better than that.’

Sure, Dad.

We sit in silence. This is OK. It’s relaxing. Nothing is expected of me. As long as nothing disturbs the peace…

Yooooooh-hooooooooh!

‘Does that woman have to make so much noise?’ mutters Dad, as if he expects Mum to vault over the gate. She opens the door.

‘Immy, love! You’re here!’ I struggle up from the sagging sofa and throw my arms around her. Oh, goodness me, she’s getting thin. I breathe in her scent, soapy, antiseptic, the lemon tang of her perfume, Sunflowers. There’s more grey in her dark hair than I remember seeing at Christmas.