After the accident, I told myself for years you were not harmed. But in your new quietness lay the truth. Whatever had made you stand on that picnic-tabletop and perform for us had died with your dad. Stanley Flint. Stan. The picnic-tabletop was… before. Now we were… afterwards. After the accident, you put it back in the shed. Soil from the trowel fell on it. Snails made a home on it – like barnacles on the bottom of an abandoned ship.

You had become shy. Overnight. You’re still shy, in a way that you never used to be, and that makes me sadder than I know how to say. Sometimes, even now, when you make me laugh or tell me your stories, I long so badly for you to be able to share this wonderful side of yourself with the world. That was why I was so thrilled when you got the part of Little Red. It was Bridget – again – who suggested I sign you up for the local youth theatre, not to explore any potential you might have but to give you back your confidence. You were around ten or eleven by then… so, three or four years after the accident. It was the summer before you went to secondary school. The hospital had moved me to Medical Records, which was good of them. No longer able to cope with dealing directly with the needs of patients, I could have been out of a job completely.

We didn’t talk about talent any more. We didn’t talk about being special or gifted or anything like that. We had passed the prolonged and breathless shock of the first years and we were surviving, holding hands in the dark cave of grief. Bridget was right, as she so often is. You excelled in the art of becoming someone else, maybe because you wanted to be.

---

The girl in the bed opposite keeps trying to chat. Her tone hovers uncomfortably close to belligerence.

‘That your daughter?’ she said when we first came in. A’ ya doh’a? That’s what she sounds like. Thank goodness I nagged you to pronounce your words properly, although how I can get you to stop saying ‘like’ every second word is anyone’s guess.

I wanted to say, ‘No, it’s my mother, who do you think it is?’

Except that wouldn’t have felt right, with your granny being dead, and it’s a bit rude.

‘What did you say she was in for?’ she asked, about ten minutes ago.

I didn’t. I didn’t say.

What you’re in for is your own business, no one else’s, not even the police’s. If they trace the body to us, well, then we’ll have to take a view, but until then I’m saying nothing. And nothing is exactly what I said to her. I looked at her coldly, mouth tight shut. That worked. She muttered something about only asking (arxin) and looked out of the window. If I leave your side, I’m sure she’ll be over here straight away, reading your chart before you can say nosy bitch.

Anyway, let’s talk about something nice, something life-affirming that will do just that: affirm your life, now that we’ve retrieved it. I was talking about your first night as Little Red, wasn’t I? About how excited you were when I put you to bed, how full of the famous actress you were going to become. I hoped it would pass, this euphoria, but of course it didn’t, and the morning after, you were still full of Emily this, Emily that.

‘Listen, Rosie,’ I said. ‘We don’t even know her. She could be anyone.’

‘Anyone could be anyone,’ you said as you set the table. ‘We can still look at her website though, can’t we? Just a look?’

‘All right, all right. Just a look.’

You fetched your laptop and we looked up the Into the Light Agency. With hindsight, I suspect you’d already looked it up in bed the night before on your iPhone. Your auntie Bridge had gone to the gym, I think, because it was just us two that morning. I’d made waffles, and we ate them with maple syrup, do you remember?

The agency was exactly as Emily had said: there weren’t many actors on it, maybe eight or ten or so, and they all looked to be in their late teens, maybe early twenties. I tell you what, Rosie, and I don’t expect you to understand this, but as you get older, the sight of young people can bring a tear to the eye. Youth: so beautiful, so full of innocence, curiosity and hope. Maybe it’s because I know I’m looking at the blemish-free faces of people who have yet to experience real pain, have yet to have their lives irrevocably compromised. Why would they not be curious? Why would they not hope? Life hasn’t yet taught them not to.

Sorry, I’m being morbid, not to mention making assumptions about people I don’t even know. I mustn’t let the old bitterness overtake me. That’s in the past, where it needs to stay. Where were we? Oh yes, those photographs. Professional shots like you see in theatre programmes, and my thoughts turned immediately to the worry of how much a photograph like that would cost. There was one shot in particular: a girl with sleek black hair, flawless skin and the biggest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Sunita Philips, I think her name was.

‘Oh my God,’ you said. ‘She is so amazing.’

I could tell you were thinking about what it would be like to have a photograph like that taken, to have yourself presented in that way and how wonderful it would be. And I wonder if that’s the moment I thawed. I could see that the website was very professional; your auntie had checked Emily’s credentials online. I didn’t trust her, no way, but then I didn’t trust anyone.

‘You really want to do this, don’t you?’ I said.

You nodded once, twice, three times. You were tucking into your muesli and you grinned at me, your cheeks pinking with delight. Another drip fell from the melting iceberg that was me.

‘You’d have to keep on top of your school work,’ I said, pouring coffee into my flask for work. I said nothing about the money, another worry that was running through my mind. I knew I’d find the cash somehow.

You nodded again – three, four, five times – your brow furrowed in a show of commitment. It reminded me of when you were four and I said I would only buy you tap shoes if you promised to stick at the lessons. You stuck to the lessons, all right. I found some tap shoes second-hand. You wore them out. In fact, you wore them until your big toenails went black, and when I asked why, you said you didn’t want to ask me for another pair because they were expensive. Bless your heart, darling. My darling girl.

You probably couldn’t believe I was even considering it, could you, because of how I am – my limitations, my paranoia. I smiled to myself, put my flask into my bag with my packed lunch, made sure your sandwiches were ready in your rucksack with your water bottle and one of the chocolate Rice Krispie cakes I still made for you safe in its Tupperware. I was busy, as usual, scooting about, but as I came past you, I reached over and laid my hand on your soft cheek.

‘This doesn’t mean I’m saying yes to drama school or anything like that,’ I said. ‘That’s a whole other conversation, all right?’

‘I understand,’ you said, washing down your multivit with a slug of orange juice. ‘She said it’d only be for adverts anyway at first, for experience and coaching and all that stuff. Even if I don’t get anything, it’ll be good to put on my CV, and I won’t fall behind on my GCSEs or anything.’

‘And how will you get to these auditions?’

I saw you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

‘Mum, I take a bus when I go into Kingston or Richmond, don’t I? I’ve been on the train to Waterloo. I’m fifteen.’

‘You’ve only been on the train once, with Naomi. And that’s with no changes and no Tube. What if it’s at night?’

‘They don’t do auditions at night! She’s not going to send me to anything dodgy, is she? She’s not going to send me across London at, like, midnight. Her agency wouldn’t last long if she did that, would it?’

I chewed my lip. ‘I’ll give her a call once the play’s finished its run,’ I said after a moment. ‘No harm in seeing what she’s got to say.’