She checks the last page of every new book first to make sure it has a happy ending; if not, she won’t even start the “stupid thing.” She sips a small glass of sparkling wine as she reads. No one’s allowed to speak to Marie-France during this ritual. Not Steve nor me, and even my younger brother, Malcolm, who used to be able to interrupt her when he was small, mustn’t disturb her.

I now know why she does this—it’s the only time she feels safe. The only time she knows that everything will turn out fine. My mother’s most urgent need is for everything to turn out fine after spending too long in parts of the world where life will never, ever be safe again. She’s seen every gate to hell.

I go into the back garden and sit there in the dark. I gaze at the house, the cube we live in. A small terrace house in Putney, with a bathroom whose light you turn off by tugging on a cord. My mother bought the brick-faced sandstone house because of this so-called garden, which consists of a patch of lawn and an evergreen hedge. Through the lit windows I can see Maman in the kitchen and Steve sitting in front of the television. There’s a football match on.

A small, safe cubic life.

I play a game called “If my father were here.” Here’s how it goes: I shut my eyes and imagine what it might be like and every idea comes true when I reopen my eyes. There would be a huge bookcase, crammed with novels. We’d have a dog called Winterfell or Lobsang. I’d wear a pointy black hat like Sir Terry Pratchett, and on Towel Day my father would quote Douglas Adams and spend all day in a striped dressing gown. My father would demonstrate how to cross a minefield on your own using a chopstick and a graffiti spray can. Eddie would come by on her motorbike. And Maddie would be there too.

I keep my eyes closed while I imagine Eddie climbing off her BMW and going into the house. My father would kiss her.

But what about Maddie? She’d come toward me with her hands covering her eyes, as in blindman’s buff, and yet she’d know exactly where I was. Suddenly she would be facing me, very close, and then she’d lower her hands and look at me.

When I open my eyes, the only books in the house other than my mother’s supermarket potboilers are still the ones in my room. Steve’s watching football, and Malcolm’s playing on his console.