Fishing in her jeans pocket for her key, Bessie found it hard to look down at the ground and remain upright. With her feet fixed to the floor, the top of her body lurched forward and her forehead met the front door with a thump loud enough to alert her parents, who were suddenly both standing there, staring at her.

‘What on earth?’ her mum asked, her mouth open, her eyes darting over her face.

‘She’s drunk,’ her dad noted, in a tone that sounded a lot like disappointment.

‘Get her in!’ her mum snapped, as if once again her dad was in some way responsible, while looking up and down the street to check none of the neighbours were watching.

Not entirely lost to the alcohol slurring her speech and sending her gaze off centre, Bessie made the quick and smart decision to let them think she was smashed to avoid having to explain the most horrendous of evenings.

Her mum rushed into the small kitchen at the back of the house and filled the kettle.

Her dad took a step outside and smiled weakly at her. ‘Come on, poppet, let’s get you inside.’ His tone was warm and loving, almost more than she could bear.

Part of her wanted to run up the stairs and hide until this horrible sense of being out of control had passed and her sadness had ratcheted down a level, while the other part of her wanted to fall into his arms and let him tell her everything was going to be okay. She stumbled into the hallway and looked at the small round mirror above the radiator. It seemed almost impossible that only an hour or so ago she had admired herself in the same mirror, in the same clothes. Her hair had now fallen flat and her make-up was grotesque. Bright colours were smeared all the way up to the thin arch of her eyebrows, while a streak of lip gloss glistened across her cheek. How could it be that she had left the house thinking she was in control, smart and grown-up? She now knew the truth: she was young and scared and she had been reckless. Her behaviour, her choices, her desires had damaged her, damaged her in ways she could not possibly understand, not yet. All she wanted was to curl up in a warm spot and cry.

‘Go and wash your face, love, and get your jimmy jams on.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ The way he treated her was something to cling to through the Cinzano-muddied swamp through which her thoughts had to crawl – a kindly lifeline when she needed it most. To him she was still whole, unbroken and worthy of his love. At that moment and in his eyes, she was no more than his little girl who had messed up. Bessie wondered how long it would be before he looked at her differently. Her tears came at the very thought.