I pretended not to see her and walked faster. She whistled a dozen more times, as if I were a common dog. I hailed a taxi with tinted windows and dived in. I saw her running towards me, gesticulating madly (my mother’s just turned sixty and is fighting fit). I didn’t know where to go, but I didn’t want to go home. I gave the driver the address of a restaurant. On the spur of the moment, I’d decided to celebrate my son’s final month at a Michelin-starred eatery. I’ll gloss over that evening, during which, for the first time in my life, a waiter refused to serve me. When I ordered my third bottle of exorbitantly priced wine, I was politely asked to pay my bill and leave. I took it very badly. My memories are a bit hazy, but I think I had to be escorted off the premises and ended up having the meal for free – get that inebriated woman out of here without trying to make her pay, rather than cause a scandal in those hushed surroundings.

I had trouble finding a taxi to take me home. Several stopped but said no when they saw the state I was in. A knight in shining armour, answering to the name of Mamadou, drove me home and deposited me in front of the entrance to my building.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, madame?’

‘Of course, everything’s fine, Mr Taxi-Driver.’

The car moved off and I passed out in the double-door entrance before I could enter the code on the internal keypad.

6

30 Days

Fight Back

I woke up in my bed. My head felt as if it was about to explode and I wanted both to throw up and to crawl into a mouse hole, as the memories of the previous evening gradually flooded back. I was mortified. I hoped none of my neighbours had seen me, and I quickly realized that I didn’t have the faintest idea how I’d got up to my apartment. My adventure – as far as I knew, but everything was hazy, I had to admit – had ended in the entrance to my building. I got up slowly. I felt giddy. I managed to take a few steps to extricate myself from my bedroom and go into the sitting room.

Whistle – a start, turn around. My mother.

A cook’s apron around her waist, a vacuum-cleaner handle in her right hand, her left hand on her hip – her signature stance and sign of her impatience.

‘The state you’re in, my girl – you look a fright.’

‘Good morning, Mother. What are you doing here?’