The buzzer was discreet, a small label stuck next to it – ‘A. Greville’, it said, in courier script. The doorway was at the far end of the Goldborne Road, where fruit and veg stalls and dodgy antique vendors spill out on the street and the nasty, showy wealth of Notting Hill starts to fade. My finger hovered above it for a few seconds, the noise and bustle around me jangling my already shredded nerves. I’d been going over the shitstorm that was Saturday again and again, more repelled by that version of me every time I replayed the tape. I’d made a cautious peace with Mum, all by text – I’m sorry I drank too much xx was all I said, knowing that everything I wasn’t saying would leave her raging.

She’d tried to call me, then left a voicemail that contained a few of her standard phrases. We can’t go on like this was followed by a date and time to see Amber. And now, here I was, shivering pathetically on the doorstep, victimized even by the November weather, not sure who I was really here for. Was it Mum? Was it me? Was it even for Amber? I stopped my navel-gazing and pushed the bell.

‘Is that you, Rachel?’ Amber’s voice sounded warm, even via the crackly intercom.

I swallowed, my eyes flicking down the road. There was a handbag shop on the corner, buttery leather sacks stacked up in a tempting pile in the window. It took all of my self-control not to skip away and max out my already groaning overdraft.

‘Yes. I’m here,’ I said, forcing myself to push the heavy door open when it clicked.

The hallway was cream, fresh red tulips overflowing from a vase on a console table, a silver mirror above it making the space feel welcoming and open. It was warm and cozy, like I’d been wrapped up tight in a John Lewis Christmas ad.

‘Rachel?’

There she was, standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down at me. She had an off-the-shoulder black jumper on, pulled down over skinny jeans, her dark hair piled up in a messy bun. I remember wondering inexplicably if she was cold, if those bare shoulders would be pocked with goosebumps when I got up close to her. She felt like a chic, ageless friend, not some proxy parent sent to judge me.

‘Hi,’ I said, ashamed of the way my voice quavered.

‘Come on up,’ she said, encouraging me with a wide, red-mouthed smile. ‘Sorry there are so many stairs. Bit of an arse, I know.’

She turned quickly on her heel, and I made the climb. Her rooms were two flights up, as elegant and welcoming as the hallway had been. There were two green velvet sofas littered with cushions, a low glass coffee table between them, soft lighting shedding a sepia glow.