I set her back down, kissing her hair, drawing in a deep breath to fight off the nausea. I’ll let her do playdough, I think, just for a little bit while the baby is sleeping. I open the understairs cupboard, reaching in for the playdough Rav’s brother bought her for Christmas, catching sight of someone sitting at the kitchen table as I do. There is someone here, there’s someone in the kitchen. Fuck. I pause, silent, waiting to see if whoever it is has noticed that I am downstairs, my fingers reaching for an old umbrella in the cupboard before I start to tiptoe towards the kitchen. My heart feels as if it is going to burst out of my throat as I slip soundlessly along the hallway, my useless weapon clutched in one fist. Sending one worried glance back over my shoulder to where Mina sits on the sofa, I slide my phone from my back pocket, typing in the triple nines ready to hit connect. As I step into the kitchen, I see who is sitting at the table and my phone flies from my hand, dropping to the tiled floor with an ominous crack, the umbrella following after it. My hand flies to my mouth.

‘Mum?’

Chapter Twelve

‘Mum. Oh my God. What … why …?’ My words tangle in my throat at the sight of my mother, sitting at my kitchen table as if I only saw her last week, instead of months ago. She looks just as she did the last time I saw her – her hair still a shiny conker brown, her figure an impressive size eight. She has been complimented on her slim figure more times than I can count over the years and she behaves as though it is effortless. Only I know that she is slim because she doesn’t eat, preferring to smoke to stem her appetite. There is an unlit cigarette in her hand now, the telltale rim of pink lipstick on the filter telling me that she has already been tempted to smoke it. Tiny lines around her mouth are the only sign that she is in her early sixties, all other wrinkles botoxed away. Seeing her sitting there, chic and well dressed, I feel frumpy and fat, my stomach still wobbly and bloated from the pregnancy.

‘Mum,’ I say again, feeling hot tears sting at the back of my eyes. I blink rapidly, not moving from where I stand in the doorway. My instinct is to go to her, to throw my arms around her tiny frame and breathe in the familiar scent of her Shalimar perfume and the faint smoke on her skin. But my mother isn’t a hugger and never has been, so I stand where I am, still unable to believe she is actually, really here.

‘I did knock but there was no answer, so I let myself in through the back. You left it open,’ she tuts.