I stared at him. He had a symmetrical, nice-looking face, a slightly turned-up nose and a square jaw. Spiky hairs poked out of his chin and upper lip. His forehead was shiny with sweat and his skin was a golden-brown shade that reminded me of honey. He didn’t have any wrinkles around his eyes like her, which meant he was younger. How much younger, I couldn’t be sure. He looked fine – on the outside, but I knew it was impossible to tell what was going on inside somebody’s head.

The man looked from me to Mother’s retreating back. He seemed a bit uncomfortable, worried maybe, but who was I to guess the feelings of a strange man I’d only just met? Especially when I hadn’t seen one in ten years. Not a living, breathing, sweating one.

I glanced over my shoulder and followed his gaze. Mother was heading towards the kitchen, walking in a weird way, her hips swaying from side to side like the pendulum in the grandfather clock.

She was almost out of earshot, but I couldn’t be sure. How could I know he was trustworthy? He could be thinking anything right now. Behind those tired, innocent-seeming brown eyes, his thoughts could be cruel, evil, wicked. That was the horrifying truth; no one could know what was going on in someone else’s mind. Thoughts were private. There was no need to make an effort to hide them, because they remained as silent as the dead, voiced only in your own head; right now, she did not have a clue that I was debating whether to ask this man for help or not, just as I had no clue what he was thinking or what Mother was thinking. The fact terrified me. I stared at the back of his head as he turned away from me with a puzzled look on his face. He followed her into the kitchen with slow, weary steps, his bag still weighing heavily on his back.

I followed him, heart thumping, unable to make a decision. To trust or not to trust?

He paused at the kitchen doorway. ‘Why’re the windows like that?’

‘Come in, come in. Take off that heavy bag and rest yourself,’ she said, bustling about the kitchen humming ‘Take It Easy’.

‘The windows?’ he repeated with a yawn, still standing.

Mother turned to face him. I noticed her top two buttons were undone, exposing the top of her breasts. She smiled, ‘Oh that? That’s because my poor little Mirabelle here is allergic to sunlight. Such a shame, but it can’t be helped. Poor little thing. Now, what would you prefer, Patrick, ham or cheese sandwiches?’

Her words sounded so false. They were so false. She was false. Everything about her was pretend.