Near the top, on the step with the missing banister post, she stopped and said, ‘The fact is, you never know what’s round the corner in life, good or bad.’ Then tripped on the last step, gathered her dressing gown like a nappy between her legs and disappeared back into her room.

Dr Franco had once again managed to get me talking, exposing.

After leaving your office burdened with both guilt and anger, I wished I’d had the foresight to cancel. But when in that special room, I was lulled into bringing her alive.

‘And what is it about that particular memory that sticks with you?’ He then scribbled intently in his book.

I appreciated his notes now. It showed someone was listening. And there was importance in what he heard.

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK . . . Let me reword that. When I asked you for a memory about your mum that sticks in your mind, why do you think that’s the one that came to the fore?’

‘I don’t know. Her tripping after saying that. It was funny.’

‘So it’s a funny memory for you?’

‘No. Not really.’ I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Attempted to make myself comfortable, knowing nothing would.

‘How did it feel having your mother always being drunk in her room?’

‘It was just how it was.’

‘But how did it make you feel?’

Words snagged on my throat, which led to uncontrollable coughing. He stood and calmly went to a table in the corner, poured a glass of water from a jug and walked back to hand it to me, smiling.

With each swallow, I swilled the emotion back down.

‘Better?’

I nodded, keeping my breaths measured to prevent it happening again. Hoping he’d move on. Respect that I obviously didn’t want to talk about it. But he eased back in his chair and waited. Waited. Waited.

‘It made me angry, I guess.’

‘And how did you express this anger?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Ever?’

‘No . . . Well, sometimes I’d pour her Martini down the sink. If she was too pissed to remember she’d just bought it.’

‘Then what would happen?’

‘She’d buy some more.’

His gold-rimmed glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back up with his hairy fingers as his other hand made notes. I’d never noticed how gorilla-like they were before.

‘That must have been very frustrating for you.’

‘As I say, it’s just how it was.’

He smiled, before resting his pen in the centre dip of his pad. ‘Constance . . . what do you think happened to your father?’

I resented the question. He had no right. A darted look showed my disapproval, but he remained unperturbed. ‘I’ve told you – we never knew.’

‘Have you ever tried to find him, contact him?’

‘No . . . I . . . Kind of. I post him cards.’

‘You’ve written to him?’