It takes us a while to climb the stairs because the lift’s still broken. I grab another bag from Mum to lighten her load. The whole of our floor reeks of Nick’s bacon and eggs. Mum sniffs the air and I can barely keep my tone casual as I explain he made himself a snack.

She goes in ahead. My whole body’s braced: Will the plan have worked, or will Nick come whistling from the kitchen, asking Mum if she’s ready to hit the road? How fast might the pills take effect, if at all?

Mum calls out a greeting but nobody responds. A second or two later, Becca comes out of my room. She still looks pale and her smile doesn’t bend right. I try desperately to read her expression, catch her eye. I’m hot again and the label on my school shirt is niggling at my neck.

“Where’s Nick?” Mum asks.

“Bathroom,” Becca says.

My heart speeds up. Does that mean . . . ?

“Have you colored your hair, Becca?” Mum asks as I try to listen for noises from behind the bathroom door.

“Yeah,” Becca says distractedly, twirling a purple strand around her finger.

Mum’s gaze moves to the towel lying rumpled on my bedroom carpet. “Hope the stains come out of that,” she says in the tight voice she’s started using more and more lately. It’s almost like she chooses Becca to take out her stress on, like she’s afraid to provoke Nick, and she’s habitually soft on me, so somebody has to bear the brunt.

Today’s exchange doesn’t get a chance to escalate. There’s the sound of a flush, and a lock being drawn across, the bathroom door opening.

And there is Nick. Looking normal. Fine. Smelling of minty soap.

He smiles at Mum and kisses her. “Was wondering where you’d got to. Ready to go?”

—

I watch from the kitchen window as they leave. Two miniature figures walking away from the tower block toward a taxi. Nick somehow manages to carry all the luggage while keeping one arm around Mum’s shoulders. If other people are watching from the flats, they’re probably thinking what an attentive boyfriend he is. I press my face against the steamed-up pane as the taxi door closes behind them.

“We tried, Kate,” Becca says. “Maybe it’s for the best that it didn’t work. It’s only three days . . . Your mum will be okay.”

I say nothing, just stare at the frying pan and the bowl that held his scrambled eggs, now dripping slow bubbles onto the draining board.

—