Patricia stared at her, appearing to focus momentarily, to trawl through the files in her brain and make sense of the sight before her. ‘You’re the one off of the telly,’ she stated.

‘Er, yes. But do you remember me from before?’

And suddenly Patricia’s tired face was transformed with an unexpected smile, her features softening and showing hints of beauty past. She gasped. ‘Of course I do! Little Lana Lloyd. Come on in, kid. Excuse the mess. Late night.’ And she turned back inside, Lana meekly following.

The living room was just as Lana remembered it, the smell of cigarettes making her want one even though she’d been trying to give up. The curtains were closed and the room was lit by a small lamp in the corner.

‘Have a seat,’ Patricia commanded. ‘Shove that on the floor.’ She was referring to an industrial-sized bra that was hanging limply off the arm of the sofa.

Lana perched herself on its edge.

‘What’ll you have?’ asked Patricia as she made her way to the sideboard, bearing two half-full bottles of whisky and gin.

‘Oh, nothing for me,’ said Lana. ‘I’m driving.’

Patricia raised a defiant eyebrow. ‘You’ve not been to see me for twenty-odd years and now you’ll not even share a Scotch?’

Lana was gripped by an old fear, the fear she’d once felt in Patricia’s formidable presence when she was just a little girl. It was fear, yes. But it was also a weird kind of admiration. ‘Oh, go on then. Just a little one, mind.’

Patricia winked. ‘That’s my girl.’

Much to Judith’s consternation growing up, Catrin and Lana had always been a bit in awe of her mother. They found her intriguing and entertaining when she regaled them with stories of her adventurous youth, shocking them both in a way that none of their parents ever could. When they were fifteen, Patricia had produced some very expensive French perfume in a heavy glass bottle. She had treated them all to a dab on their wrists. Its musky scent was exotic and heady, as if it belonged to a world they knew nothing about.

‘Of course, you know what good perfume is made from, don’t you?’ she asked them all.

None of them did.

‘Ulk’s balls!’ Patricia exclaimed.

Lana had burst out laughing, Judith had gone red with embarrassment, and Catrin had just looked confused. ‘Ulk?’ she’d asked.

‘Yes! That’s what they make it from. An ulk!’

‘Don’t you mean … an elk?’ asked Catrin.

And Lana, who had been drinking an Irish coffee (Patricia always liked to force the glamour of alcohol into their teenage Welsh lives), spat it out in an explosive laugh.

‘Ulk? Elk? Tomato? Tomayto? – You know what I mean!’ said Patricia. ‘Big brown bugger with horns.’

‘Antlers,’ Judith had said, smiling, and it was one of the few occasions when she’d seemed appreciative of her mother’s humorous side.

Lana smiled at the memory as Patricia handed her a chipped glass containing far too much whisky.