She peeks around the door, her dark fringe and long eyelashes appearing first, like a naughty child, her green eyes sparkling. ‘Hel o, darling.

My little girl.’

‘Mum?’ I say, standing up. ‘Wow. I’ve been cal ing you for days. Hel o! What are you doing here?’

‘I was in the area,’ she says. ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve been rather un-loco parentis lately.’ She gives a tinkling laugh. ‘Awful joke. I’m sorry, should I have cal ed?’

‘No, of course not,’ I say, sounding ridiculously formal. My heart is beating fast, and my palms are slick. ‘It’s fine. I’ve been wondering where you were. I haven’t seen you since the funeral and—’

Mum frowns. ‘Wel , I’m here now, aren’t I?’

She advances into the room, arms outstretched. She looks fantastic, as always, skinny jeans tucked into brown suede leather boots, a thick grey cardigan-coat and a long floral scarf wrapped many times round her neck and tied in a knot. Her skin is gleaming, her nails are beautiful, her hair is shining and soft. She wraps me in her arms.

‘Poor girl.’

She squeezes me tight. Her scent is heavy; it makes me nauseous. Suddenly I want to push her away. I’m repulsed by her.

I step back. She clutches my hands, then reaches into her large canvas bag. ‘Bought you a little something,’ she says, handing me a box of tiny, very expensive-looking cheese crackers in a beautiful y printed box.

‘Thanks,’ I say, bemused by this gift, which is so like Mum – there were months when we thought we wouldn’t be able to pay the rent in Bryant Court, but she would think nothing of buying a free-range chicken from Fortnum & Mason for fifteen pounds and then not know how to cook it. I put the biscuits down on the little sink. ‘Have you eaten? Do you want some coffee – or tea?’

‘Tea would be lovely,’ she says, and I suddenly realise what’s been bothering me. She’s nervous too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her nervous.

‘Great.’ We are silent for a moment. We don’t know how to do this. I look around for a distraction. Luckily, I remember Ben has borrowed my teapot.

‘I’l get the teapot.’ I get up. ‘Back in a second.’ She is looking around the room, and she hums blithely in agreement when I say this. My hand is on the door and I say, ‘Mum – we do need to talk, you know.’

Mum’s expression does not change, but there’s something in her eyes that I can’t define. ‘Oh, darling, real y?’

I realise this is a stupid way to begin. ‘Yes, real y. Look, hold on.’

I dash down the corridor and knock on their door. Ben flings it open.

‘Aha,’ he says. ‘Hel o there.’

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Sorry to disturb you. Have you got my teapot?’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, of course,’ he says. ‘Sorry, forgot to put it back. Hang on a second.’ He comes back with the pot and a teacake, wrapped in blue foil. ‘We’ve got one spare,’ he says. ‘Have it.’

I take the teacake. ‘Thanks.’

‘Was going to drop by later. We’re going for a drink.’

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Mum’s just turned up. Soon, though. I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘I know, you’re busy,’ he says. ‘But it’s good.’ He smiles, and I know he knows. ‘Just checking you’re not rocking at home in a bal by the radiator.’ He scratches his curly hair and it bounces; I smile.

‘Wel , thanks again,’ I say. ‘I’m OK. I’m not going to start gibbering and weeping al over you.’

‘You’re al owed to, you know,’ he says. ‘You’re so in touch with your feelings, Benjamin,’ I say. ‘I’m a cold-hearted bitch, however. So bog off.’

He smiles, and then I hear Tania’s voice in the background. ‘Hi, Nat. How you doing?’

In the back of my buzzing brain this confuses me. I thought she wasn’t working with him any more. Perhaps she’s just popped over to see him, he is her boyfriend after al . ‘I’m good,’ I cal back to her.

‘See you guys later then,’ I say. ‘Coolio. Sorry about tonight.’

‘No probs,’ he says equably, sticking a piece of toast in his mouth. He reaches out and pats my shoulder. ‘Hey. You’re not cold-hearted. You’re lovely. Remember that. Keep your chin up, Nat.’ His voice is muffled as he closes the door, almost abruptly, and I’m left standing in the corridor. On the front of the door is written, in black marker pen:

Ben Cohen

Photographer & Male Escort

I’ve never noticed this before and it makes me smile. I’m stil smiling as I walk back into the studio. Mum is looking at my drawing pad, the sketch of the ring and the necklace; she jumps guiltily.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You gave me a fright.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. I fil the kettle up and then I take a deep breath and turn to face her. The unexpectedness of this encounter makes me bold. I haven’t had time to worry about it. ‘So where have you been? I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Mum runs one hand careful y through her hair. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s been hard for me.’

‘You should have cal ed me.’

She smiles, almost sweetly. ‘Darling, you don’t understand.’

‘I don’t?’ I say, looking at her.

‘No, you don’t. Sorry, Natasha.’

‘Try me,’ I say, opening my arms wide. ‘You’ve lost your mother, I’ve lost my grandmother. My marriage is ended. You’re my mum. Why can’t you talk to me? And why can’t I talk to you? I’m not saying I’m a great daughter, but . . . where’ve you been?’

‘Because . . .’ She shakes her head, scrunching up her face.

‘Oh, you don’t understand. You don’t! I know you think I’m a terrible mother, but –’ her voice is rising into a whine – ‘you don’t understand!’

A kind of despair tugs at me – this is my mother, my mother. ‘Octavia said you were the last person anyone would ask for help,’ I say icily. ‘She was right, wasn’t she?’

‘Octavia? We’re listening to what Octavia says now, are we? Right.’ Mum’s eyes dart around the room, undermining the bul ish tone in which she says this. ‘Funny, darling, I thought you and I were in rare agreement about Octavia. She’s the last person I’d ask for help.’

This is going wrong, al wrong. ‘She just said it, that’s al . I’m not saying I like her, it’s—’

Mum interrupts. ‘Listen, Natasha. She’s her mother’s daughter. And her father’s. Hah. I don’t care for their opinions, to be honest. Neither should you.’

I’m standing behind the counter. She is facing me. ‘Octavia said something else, too,’ I say, nodding as if to wil myself along, and her eyes meet my gaze. ‘Octavia said . . .’ My voice breaks. ‘Mum, she said you pushed Cecily that day. You pushed her down the steps.’

My mother’s eyes widen a little, and she says, with a catch in her throat, ‘OK, OK.’

She paces around, two steps forward, turns, two steps back. I watch her. ‘You think I kil ed her,’ she says. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘They al think –’ I begin, but she interrupts me again. ‘Not them.’ She holds up her hand. ‘Not them, Natasha. You. Answer me. Is that what you’re saying?’

I wipe my hands on my jeans. It is so quiet. Downstairs, a door slams. She is looking right into my eyes.

When it comes, the word slides out of my mouth quietly. ‘Yes,’ I say, not looking at her. ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

* * *

My mother doesn’t react immediately. We face each other in the cold, darkening room. ‘Wel , that’s very interesting,’ she replies. ‘Very interesting. I guess I always knew this moment would come.’

She says it lightly, as if it’s of moderate interest, and hugs herself a little tighter, her head on one side. She looks so beautiful, but I am suddenly revolted by her cool, ravishing beauty, her cunning hooded eyes, her total lack of trustworthiness, and I remember how good an actress she real y is, has always been.

‘You knew this moment would come?’ I say. I back up, stand against the wal , my hands on the cool white plaster.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘When you final y went over to their side.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Nearly a month since Mummy died, and you’ve done it. I knew it.’

‘I’m not on anyone’s “side”.’ I swal ow. ‘It’s just they say that—’

‘“They”?’ my mother says, smiling. ‘Who are “they”, please?’

‘Wel –’ I stutter. ‘Octavia and – Louisa, and – the rest of them.’

She nods. ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes flash a little as she sees my expression. ‘That’s very nice. And my own daughter believes them.’ She leans back on the counter. ‘Louisa has no evidence, you know. This is a land grab, don’t you see that?’ She raises her eyebrows so they disappear into her tinted fringe. ‘They’re al trying to ruin me, to make themselves feel better, now Mummy’s gone.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think Louisa’s trying to – to do anything, Mum. She just said—’

Mum’s face is flushed. ‘Oh, if you knew what I know . . .’ She stops. She is almost laughing; her mouth opens without sound. Then she says,

‘What I’ve put up with, since I was a little girl, from al of them. You don’t know what it was like.’

I find that al my fear of saying these things I’ve never wanted to say has gone. Al the thoughts I’ve been bottling up over the past weeks, over the past thirty years. ‘That’s rubbish!’ My voice is loud, harsh. ‘You’re always trying to be horrible about Granny. Al she ever tried to do was look after you.’

Mum gives a weird shriek, something between laughter and hysteria. ‘Her? Look after me! Oh, that’s a joke.’ She shakes her head. ‘Yes, that’s funny.’ She stops. She looks at a nail and cautiously bites the edge of it. Then she mutters something to herself, something I can’t hear.

‘Octavia said I should ask Guy,’ I say calmly. ‘She says he knows what happened.’

My mother is pul ing a smooth ribbon of her hair through her long fingers. She stops at this and laughs. ‘Guy again?’ She bites her lip. ‘Oh, he’s everywhere now, isn’t he? He’s real y crawled out of the woodwork! Go on, ask away! I’d be interested to see what he has to say for himself.’

‘What does that mean?’

She is speaking so fast she can’t quite get the words out. ‘Listen to me, Nat, darling. In al this, there’s no one I hate more than Guy Leighton.’

‘Oh, come on, Mum—’

Her eyes are burning. ‘He’s ful of shit, always has been, and he hides behind some kind of nice-guy liberalism – I sel antiques, I live in Islington, I like Umbria more than fucking Tuscany.’ She is almost spitting, and the red spots on her cheeks are spreading. ‘He’s fake. He’s worse than the Bowler Hat. At least you know the Bowler Hat’s a lazy fucking right-wing lech. Guy’s worse. He’s the biggest hypocrite of the lot.’ Her expression is twisted and her face is ugly. ‘I’m the one in this family that everyone hates and you know why? Because it’s easier to hate me than look any deeper at them. She slipped, the path was slippery, fine, it wasn’t my fault. But I stil saw it. I saw her die, and she was my sister, and it ruined my life. No one understands that.’

I don’t know what to say to her, she’s so ful of self-righteous anger. She has that quality that a lot of people like her have in spades: I have to be right. Suddenly I find my courage. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mum,’ I say. ‘Start taking responsibility for things.’

She bares her teeth at me and lifts her head slightly. And she looks at me with such naked contempt I almost step back. This woman is a stranger, I don’t know her. ‘Oh, you were always a self-righteous little prig, Natasha, even when you were little,’ she says clearly, an edge of cold anger in her voice. ‘God, I loathe that about you. Al this – it’s just so you can have a go at me, accuse me of being a bad mother and blame me for your own little life going off the rails. Isn’t it?’ And then her eyes fil with tears. ‘It’s been hard for me,’ she says. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. They al hated me.’

‘Oh, Mum, they didn’t.’ I am sick of this play-acting. ‘No one hated you. You just . . .’ I trail off, I don’t know what to say. You’re just not very nice?

You’re a bad person?

‘Mummy hated me, Cecily hated me.’ Her voice is rising, whining like a dog’s, and it’s horrible. She moves towards me and I step back again.

‘I was al on my own, with a baby, for years.’ She wipes a tear away. ‘You do have to accept me for how I am, darling. I’m not some fifty-something housewife with a middle-aged spread and a store card at Marks and Spencer.’ She shakes her hair a little, with some kind of assumed bravado.

‘I’m not that kind of mum. I’m different.’

It’s only then that I can feel myself losing it. It’s the shake of her hair, the artificial way she’s talking, the character she’s constructed for herself –

she claims it’s for survival, and I am sure it’s to cover something up. At any rate, I can feel rage bubbling just underneath me. ‘You’ve never been a mum at al !’ I shout at her. ‘What are you talking about?’