She gave me her Mother Face. The Mother Face wasn’t pleasant and affectionate and understanding like the face of the mother in the Oxo ad. The Mother Face made it clear that she knew everything, and that she could say or do anything and it was all right because she once carried me around inside her for a couple of months. Big deal.

“I’m your mother,” she said again. In case I’d forgotten in the two seconds since the last time she said it.

“Not ’cos you wanted to be!” I screamed. “You never wanted me.” I knew this because I’d heard her talking to my nan about it when we went to Hastings in the summer. I was an accident. My sisters were already grown up; she’d really been planning to go back to college.

“What are you talking about? Of course I wanted you.”

“No you didn’t. You wanted to drink gin and throw yourself down the stairs.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed.

“If you don’t get that stuff off your face and put on something decent, I’m going to drink gin and throw you down the stairs,” said my mother.

“I’m fifteen,” I said in my coldest, most grown-up voice. “Everybody my age dresses like this.”

“Everybody your age does not live with me.”

“I don’t hear anybody crying.”

She slammed her glass down on the counter. “As long as you live in this house, you do what I say. Now go back to your room and put on some clothes.”

“No.” My lower lip trembled. “I’m not changing, and you can’t make me.”

The old witch cackled. “Oh can’t I?”

Charley said, “Hil, let it go, all right? She’ll be sitting down anyway, what’s the difference?” He gave me a weak smile. “You look really pretty.”

She looked like she wanted to hit him.

“Stay out of this, Charley. This is my house and my daughter!” The glasses on the draining-board started to rattle as the decibel level rose. “I don’t need any advice on bringing up children from you.”