I am the one who reads to Laurel before bed, baths her, sings songs to her in an attempt to drown out the angry, bitter words that float up the stairs. I am the one that teaches her to tie her shoelaces and encourages her to try new foods, all while Fran and Dominic are at work or having half whispered arguments in the kitchen about where he has been. Of the pair of them, Fran is the high maintenance one and I would say Dominic is more relaxed, less inclined to lose his temper – up until Sunday morning anyway, I haven’t forgotten the way his fingers dug into my arms – but they rub along well together most of the time. So, on the surface, yes, they have a wonderful relationship, but sometimes, looking deeper, it’s not all as rosy as it seems and there are times, more than usual recently, when Laurel and I come home to a house thick with spite and bitter words. Today it seems, even after the events of the past few days, things are still the same.

I creep up the stairs, not wanting Fran to hear me and call me into whichever room they’ve argued in. I just want to get changed into dry clothes and try to sleep for an hour or two, exhaustion having caught up with me. Managing to get into my room unseen, I pull on clean sweatpants and a hoody, a pair of thick socks to warm my feet, when my mobile alerts me to someone wanting to FaceTime me. I pause, head half in, half out of the hoody, before pulling it over my head and snatching up the phone before the ringtone alerts Fran to my presence.

‘Hello?’ I swipe to answer, hurriedly smoothing my hair back into place.

‘Hello? Is that you, love?’ My mother’s face appears on the screen and my heart speeds up in my chest. Why is she calling me now?

‘Errr . . . yes, it’s me. How are you?’ Sitting on the edge of the bed I angle the screen so that the blank magnolia wall is behind me. None of the press on the doorstep managed to catch me, did they? I’ve tried so hard to keep a low profile.

‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ She gives a little sniff and there is a pause while she waits for me to ask what the problem is. I don’t ask. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Not a lot,’ I say, glancing at my watch. Let’s hope she’s not in for the long haul. ‘Just working mostly.’