She ignored me and began to paint my face in a frantic, rough way, holding my chin with fingers like pincers, her jaw clamped shut, eyes narrowed. This was not the tender, careful Mother I knew. This was another person. A person who was changing faster than I could keep up. And I knew what had kick-started this change. Clarabelle.

‘Sit still,’ Mother snapped.

I wasn’t aware I had moved. I sat extra still and focused on the orange curtains and what beautiful things might lie beyond. My chest began to relax and I floated in my imagination, picturing birds and trees and grass and flowers. Pretty, gentle things that I could admire. I pictured the sun and my eyes burned with tears that I could not let drop, my heart heavy with longing; I would never see or smell or touch any of these amazing things because if I went outside my light allergy would kill me. Mother only kept me inside for my own good. Mother always knew what was best.

Mother finished with my make-up. I sat up straighter, eager to feel the slow, tender strokes of the hairbrush, but Mother packed up her purse and left the room without a word. I listened to her mounting the stairs, to her opening and closing the spare room door. The sound of her choosing to be with a strange little girl she’d only just met rather than me. I looked at the hairbrush that Mother had abandoned on the dining room table. I picked it up and began to brush my hair in long, slow, gentle strokes, but it wasn’t the same.

That was when it hit me: nothing was going to be the same ever again.

I placed the brush on the table and stared at the hideous orange curtains.

Mother’s words came into my head, her voice quiet and sad and ringed with a hateful, black truth.

My heartbeat quickened and I put a hand to my chest. My mind pulsed with Mother’s words. Words she had been repeating to me for as long as I could remember.

Dolls live short lives.

Chapter 4

I didn’t know what to do, so I went upstairs and opened my grammar book. I had studied mathematics yesterday, so Mother would want me to study English today.

I sat at the desk and stared at the words. The text swam. My chest felt like someone was standing on it and my eyes stung with the effort of keeping salty tears locked inside my eye sockets. Stabbing pains pulsed in my temples. I picked up my pen and began the exercises. A tear dropped onto my page blurring the word ‘friend’.

Mother loves me.

Love is supposed to be a two-way thing. Do you love Mother?

My door opened; I jumped and swivelled round, dabbing my wet eyes with my fingers.