‘I didn’t get sick till I was seventeen years old, Zoë. But then I got really sick and now I don’t live, I exist. It’s why I’m still at home with my parents, why I’ve done drugs. Please, I’m begging you, don’t inflict this curse on a child.’

Her face crumples and she runs out of the den. I won’t follow her because she needs time to accept this, but I know I’m right – for her sake and my own.

Yet even as I neck beer after beer, I can’t forget her expression as she finally understood her dream of a happy family with me could never come true. I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself as much as I do right now.

And there’s only one thing I can think of that’ll wipe away the memory.

Chapter 29: Kerry

14 May 2004

‘This time next year, we’ll be on your hen do,’ Mum says, as we walk back from town.

Marilyn slaps me on the back. ‘You’ve got stamina, Kerry, I’ll give you that. Never thought it’d last.’

We’ve been out for Mum’s birthday, to a seafront club packed with wild people: gorgeous transvestites and screaming hens. We danced till they threw us out and now us Smith girls are tottering back, fuelled by chips smothered in ketchup.

‘It’s lasted because Tim’s a decent person.’

Marilyn does an exaggerated yawn. ‘He fell on his feet with you. Money, sex and a carer for his mother. She’s getting sicker, isn’t she?’

‘No! She’s fine,’ I lie. If even Marilyn has noticed, it must be bad.

It’s past midnight but Brighton is buzzing; the Fringe is in full swing and I’m making the most of being out tonight, before I go back to revising for my A level resits. A man whistles in our direction.

‘Reckon he’s after you, Kerry, unless he’s got a fetish for pregnant women,’ Marilyn says. My first niece or nephew is due in November. Not that it’s stopped Marilyn dressing on trend: her Sienna Miller-style boho dress floats over the small bump and shows off her immaculately St Tropezed legs.

‘The joke’s wearing very thin now.’

‘OK. But this just isn’t what I imagined for my kid sister.’

‘Leave her alone, Marilyn.’ Mum links arms with me. ‘Nothing wrong with being the sensible one, Kerry!’

Marilyn pouts: she’s not used to Mum taking my side. ‘This is love we’re talking about. You should let your heart rule, not your head.’

Mum reaches out to grab my sister and links arms with her too, to create an ungainly chain as we walk down the street. ‘What matters is that Tim loves Kerry and Kerry loves Tim. Right, sweetheart?’

‘Right, Mum.’