‘Ben?’ I called out. Maybe he had returned home. Sharing a house with a man meant I always locked the bathroom door whether he was in or out. There was nothing worse than being caught in the buff.

The thudding came again, harder this time. It must be the front door. Fuck’s sake. I hauled myself out of the bath and wrapped my dressing gown around me. The fibres soaking up my wet skin. A high-pitched cry came through the door.

‘Eve, it’s Mum! Hurry up, I need a piss!’

I groaned. What was she doing here? That was all I needed. I unlocked the front door and she hurried past me, already unbuttoning her trousers.

‘You took your time!’

Sighing, I shut the front door, coming around the hallway to see a pair of wrinkly knees on display. She hadn’t even bothered to close the bathroom door. Thank goodness Ben wasn’t here, it would be a lovely introduction to my mother.

I went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. A minute later the toilet was flushed, taps run, and she came in.

‘Five hours! Five bloody hours it took to get here. The A11 was screwed again. Stationary traffic for miles. Bloody overturned car! I needed a wee half an hour from home! Anyway, how are you, love?’ She pulled me against her, the smell of gin permeated her breath. It was her signature scent these days. It was so bad that she could only function with alcohol in her system. She wouldn’t have been able to make that drive without a few glasses.

‘I’m good, Mum, how are you?’

Holding me at arm’s length, she looked me up and down. ‘Jesus, girl, you need to eat something. You’re a bag of bones and that hair – well, it looks better in the flesh than on the phone.’

I hadn’t seen Mum for around six months, not since I visited for a week last July. I’d envisioned a week on the Norfolk broads, enjoying the weather, but I spent most of it clearing out the house, getting rid of empty glass bottles and rotting food. Not to mention giving the place a good scrub. She wouldn’t let me get her any help and I couldn’t bear to see her living in squalor, so I hadn’t been back since. I contacted the doctors and Alcoholics Anonymous, but I was told she had to take the first step, I couldn’t do it for her.

She sat down at the table, rummaging in her handbag for cigarettes. The miniatures she always carried clinking as she searched, eventually finding them. Handing her the tea, I sat down opposite, taking two cigarettes out of her pack and lighting one after the other.

‘Smoking again?’

‘I keep quitting, then starting again.’

‘How are you really?’ She sucked on her cigarette, fingers stained a permanent brown.