‘You? You’ve never had period pains in your life.’

‘Well I have now!’

This is ridiculous, thought Christine, arguing with my own daughter about her menstrual cycle. Has it come to this? Can we really communicate so little? Have I lost my own daughter for good?

‘Darling,’ she said, modulating her voice to a softer key, ‘if there’s anything you need to talk about . . . If you need help.’

‘Here we go again. I am not on drugs. Okay?’ She pulled back the sleeves of her dressing gown. ‘Look. No track marks.’ She pushed her nose up like a pig snout. ‘Septum still very much intact. I would give you a urine sample but I just went.’

Christine breathed out, counted to ten, watched the silent faces on the television screen. She had never consciously seen daytime television before.

‘So, how was New York?’

‘What?’ Isabelle seemed unnecessarily defensive.

‘Your trip to New York. Saks Fifth Avenue, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah . . .’

‘Your father bought me a cocktail dress there once. Our first holiday in America. I’ve still got it somewhere. Nice little black thing. Armani. You probably remember it. I used to wear it all the time.’

‘Hrrrmph.’

‘So, were you the talk of the town?’

‘It was okay.’

‘Okay. Good. Great. You flew to New York to launch your own range at Saks Fifth Avenue and it was okay.’

‘It was! Okay? It was okay.’

One more try. ‘And now I suppose it’s all hands to the pump for the second big collection.’

‘What?’

‘You know . . . Next year’s spring lines. Is it? Or the year after? I get confused.’

‘It’s all under control.’

‘Good.’

Silence fell. Isabelle scowled at the TV. Christine wished she could open the curtains, let some light and air into the room.

‘Right.’ She stood up, smoothed down her skirt. ‘I suppose I’d better be off. I’m not wanted here.’

Isabelle said nothing, her frown deepened.

‘Goodbye then.’

One stared at the telly, the other stared at the curtains. Silence.

‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if anything . . .’

‘I had an abortion. All right? Are you satisfied?

Their eyes met for a moment, and a flashgun seemed to go off in

Christine’s head. She looked back at the window, the after-image of Isabelle’s pinched face burning on to the curtain.

‘An abortion.’

‘You heard.’

‘I didn’t even know you were . . .’

‘Oh come on, Mum. Let’s drop the niceties for once. I don’t suppose you came round here just for the pleasure of my company, did you?’

When did she become so hard?

‘I was worried about you.’

‘Somebody told you.’

‘No. Someone said you were ill. I didn’t know about . . . that.’

‘I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know.’

‘Well people have a way of finding out. And whether you like it or not, people care.’