I turn left and walk up the little street where Mum lives now. There’s a row of doorbells, and her name’s there, on a faded sticker. I push the buzzer and there’s a pause before the front door clicks open automatically to allow me in.

‘I could have been a mass murderer,’ I say, as she opens the door to her flat and kisses me on the cheek. She’s dyed her hair a dark burgundy-red and cut it into a jaw-length bob. It emphasises her high cheekbones and makes her look ridiculously young for her age.

‘Sorry I can’t stay. I have to rush. I’ve got rehearsal at twelve.’

Mum’s opening words aren’t the usual ‘Darling! It’s lovely to see you!’ that a daughter might expect. It’s just as well I’m used to her. But she’s always been a bit – well, lacking in the traditional maternal side of things. She was amazing if I needed a costume in the school play, mind you. She bustles past, giving me a vague kiss on the cheek, and taking the flowers I’m holding.

‘For me? You shouldn’t have. Thanks, lovely.’

She sniffs them and tosses them aside on the table by the front door, and picks up her keys.

‘Pop them in water for me, will you? I won’t be back until after the performance because we’ve got loads to do to prep, but you’ll be okay with Nanna Beth, won’t you? There’s probably something in the fridge for dinner if you have a look.’

And she’s gone.

Growing up I got the distinct impression my mum would have been happier if she’d had Gen as a daughter. I was boring and bookish. Gen was like Mum – a rainbow of drama and glamour who made everyone look when she walked into the room. I didn’t doubt for a second that she loved me, but she was always slightly disappointed that I wasn’t as exciting as she’d hoped. She wanted a mini me, a second chance at fame. She was always desperate to hear how Gen was getting on.

‘That could’ve been me, you know, if it hadn’t been for parenthood getting in the way,’ she’d say, unthinkingly. I guess I have learned some acting skills from her – the ability to remain impassive in situations like that, for one.

‘Don’t worry yourself, lovey,’ Nanna Beth would always say. ‘She doesn’t realise what she’s saying. She loves you very much.’

I look around the flat Mum’s been renting since I’ve moved out. It’s five floors up on a side road near the promenade, and the walls are painted a dull, uninspiring grey. She’s covered them with posters from Vaudeville shows, huge colourful ones with high-kicking dancers festooned with feathers and glittering, tiny outfits. There are boxes stacked up against one wall.