Emily sent you the script for the audition. It was an advert for toothpaste; I forget now which one. I thought you had a really great chance of getting it because you do have lovely teeth. They are like mine, actually, well, like mine were before they got smashed out of my— sorry… before I lost them in the accident, I should say. The top front row of my teeth are all false, as you know, or maybe you’ve forgotten. I never take them out. It’s too upsetting seeing my mouth collapse inwards like a crone’s, not to mention the thought of you or your auntie Bridge having to see them in a glass on the bathroom shelf.

No. I’m too young for that.

Anyway, you came into my bedroom and sat on the bed to chat to me while I was putting away some clothes. Once I’d finished, you asked me to test you on your lines and handed me the script.

Nothing in life is perfect…

That was the first line, I think. On it went, the usual nonsense.

So I can’t buy designer clothes? So what? I’m happiest in my comfy old jeans. So I can’t afford cosmetics like the fashion magazines? So what? I prefer the natural look…

That kind of thing. Bullshit, basically, sorry to swear.

And then you had to flash your pearly whites and say:

But if there’s one thing I never compromise on, it’s my smile…

We laughed about how cheesy that was, didn’t we? Once you’d got it off pat, you sent it right up, doing an American accent and swishing your hair like the L’Oreal ad. I love it when we laugh together like that. We have the same sense of humour, you and me. And in that moment, I loved the fact that, even though your auntie Bridge was the actor, you’d come to me for help.

You’d come to me.

---

I began to get concerned when late on Thursday night, you complained of stomach pains.

We were sitting in the living room watching a movie on Netflix together when it started. Your auntie Bridge had a gig at the Fox in Twickenham. I was supposed to be going with her, but I wanted to stay with you the night before your big day. I’d treated us to a microwave dinner for two and we’d eaten it on trays on our knees.

‘It’s probably nerves,’ I said. ‘You got sick last time, so you maybe have association on top of everything.’

‘What?’

‘Last time you had an audition, you were too sick to go, weren’t you? You’ve got an audition tomorrow, so I’m just saying maybe your subconscious is worrying you’ll be sick again and is making you have those symptoms. They’re not real.’

‘But I feel really sick,’ you said, ‘like I’m going to throw up. It’s that microwave meal. I shouldn’t have had Indian food. My stomach’s all swollen, look. It’s rock hard.’

‘It won’t be the dinner. It’s too soon for it to be that, and besides, I had the same thing and I’m fine.’

‘I can feel it, Mummy. My stomach’s like a stone.’

‘When did you last go to the loo?’

You bit your lip in thought. ‘Wednesday? No, Tuesday. Maybe Monday?’

‘And it’s Thursday night. There you go, you see, you’re probably constipated. Classic stress. You could try a laxative, I suppose, but it might send you the other way.’

‘No, it’s OK.’ You stood up but immediately doubled over.

‘Rosie, honey.’

‘I’m OK.’ You grimaced. ‘It’s cramping. It really hurts, Mum.’ You met my eye. ‘What if it’s not better tomorrow? What if I’m not better? I keep doing do re mi fa so la ti do, but it’s not working, it’s not working, Mum.’

‘Oh, come on, baby girl. Think of all the hurdles you’ve jumped over. You can’t let a silly audition affect you like this. You were Little Red, for goodness’ sake, star of the show!’

I know. I know that was the wrong thing to say. I should have said that it didn’t matter, that none of it mattered. But I said what I said in the moment, what I thought was best, and I see now that I got that wrong. But it’s so hard to get it right all the time, and I’m not perfect, love. I’m just a mum. Any parent will tell you how difficult it is when their child is standing in front of them looking for answers and they’re thinking, But I don’t know the answers. No guidebook can ever prepare you for the million different ways in which a child can test you. You were staring at me with your big bewildered eyes, my darling, and you looked so afraid. I wanted to take that fear away, of course I did. I wanted to make it right.

‘What if it’s not better?’ you were asking me.

I didn’t know. I wanted to tell you to stop fussing, to ignore it, but I also really wanted to say, Don’t worry about it, you can stay in bed. I will look after you. In other words, half of me wanted you to go, half of me wanted you to stay. I guess that’s every parent in the world for you.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I did say that in the end. ‘There’ll be other auditions. You go on into your room and get into bed. I’ll bring you a hot-water bottle.’

You slumped away. I made a hot-water bottle and wrapped it in your white towel with the little piggies on it that you’ve had since you were a baby. It used to cover your whole body, that towel, when you were tiny and chubby and warm in my arms. Your daddy used to blow raspberries on your belly, used to hold you up high, his arms strong and straight: Whee! Look at her fly!

Ah, happy times…

Anyway, I sat by your bed and I massaged your tummy. It was as hard as a rock, up as far as your ribcage. I suspected your bowel was impacted, but rubbing it seemed to ease the pain. ‘If you’re no better in the morning,’ I said, ‘I’ll call Emily. There’s nothing at all to worry about. I’ll take care of it.’

‘Oh, Mummy,’ you said.

‘It’s OK, my darling. It’s all right. It’s all going to be all right.’

I sang to you then, do you remember? I sang some Adele, some Birdy, and that old spiritual your dad used to sing to us both.

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, oh yes, Lord…

I can’t sing like he could, but I can hold a tune. It was enough. You closed your eyes; your breathing slowed. I left the hot-water bottle on your belly. I pulled your hand to my lips and kissed it and tucked it away under the covers. As I left the room, I heard you whisper, ‘Night, Mum.’

‘Night, baby girl,’ I said. ‘Sleep now.’

---

In the kitchen, I poured myself a large glass of red wine. It was about 10 p.m. Bridget wouldn’t be back until midnight earliest, probably nearer 1 a.m. I wished she was there so I could talk to her. I thought of your dad and how calm he would have been and how I could have talked to him. How he would have known what to say.

‘If she’s sick, she’s sick, Bun,’ he would have said. Something like that. ‘Feeling worried won’t help. Feeling worried never helped anyone.’

Even thinking about what he might have said eased my anxiety, even though the soft sound of his voice remembered was wrapped up as all my memories of him are in the pain of missing him. He was… effortless. I don’t know any better way to put it. He had it no easier than anyone else, had his baggage just like the rest of us, but he bore it, bore everything, with lightness, with humour, with a kind of grace. I make it sound like we never fought, but honestly, we hardly did. Even when we did argue it was always me that caused it. Sometimes I’d pick a fight just to have one.

‘Bun,’ he would say in those moments. ‘Come on, Bunny, don’t be crazy.’ He would stroke my hair.

Once I hit him. Well I hit his hand. ‘Get off me,’ I said, and at the sight of his face, I burned with shame. He looked hurt, yes, but worse, he looked confused, as if he had no idea why I’d done that or who I was or what it meant. Oh God, even the memory of that hurts. I burst into tears and threw out my arms to him.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK, Bunny,’ he said, holding me.

‘I don’t know why I did that,’ I sobbed. ‘I can’t believe I did it. You’ll leave me. You should.’

‘Don’t be an eejit. If I didn’t have you to keep me on my toes, I’d relax so much I’d drop dead, so I would.’

I laughed. ‘You’re the eejit for loving me.’

‘You have a point there.’ He kissed my head. ‘We don’t have to know why we do what we do. It’s OK not to know why.’

Just the thought of him: that tuft of hair at the back of his head that never lay flat; his scruffy T-shirts and jeans; the terrible trainers that I threw in the bin when I’d bought him some new ones; the way he looked at me with a mixture of amusement and disbelief when I was being nuts, with mischief when he’d bought tickets for something or wanted to take me to bed… oh, and the way he danced. Like a flickering flame, he was, a beautiful flickering flame.

My throat stung. I swallowed some more wine. I wondered if your auntie Bridge had left any tobacco in the house. Ah yes, baby girl, it’s all coming out now.

‘Oh, Stan,’ I said to no one, imagining him right there at the kitchen table, bottle of beer lolling lazy in his hand.

Your phone was on charge next to the toaster.

‘Should I check it, Stan? Should I?’

‘I don’t know, Bun. Your call. I love you.’

‘I love you more.’

‘Wrong. I love you more.’

‘Should I check…’

He disappeared. From outside somewhere came the violent screech of mating foxes.

I told myself I was worried you were suffering from nerves and that I should scroll through your social media to make sure you weren’t being cyber-bullied. I told myself that I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t check. Thinking back, I reckon I checked it for no more reason than to keep you near, to have someone with me there in the howling emptiness.

Photos: you’d taken a screenshot of the street map where the audition was in case you couldn’t get 3G, and I’d given you the A–Z too, which you’d already packed in your rucksack. You were looking forward to being Emily’s co-pilot.

I went through your other photos. There was nothing untoward, and even though I hadn’t expected to find anything alarming, I felt my breathing settle. I checked the deleted album, but there was nothing in there either, just couple of snaps I remembered you taking: the strawberry sundae you made at the weekend, the Rice Krispie cakes I made the other night. You built a tower with them and sprinkled them with that new food glitter we bought. A picture of your new Converse boots.

There was nothing worrying on your Facebook page either, or in your messages, so I didn’t need to worry about anything there. I trawled through some of your friends – 273: how can you possibly know all these people? You tell me that’s not even a lot. I have to say, Rosie, some of your girlfriends post some seriously worrying pictures. Another thing we’ve fought about.

‘Look at that girl,’ I remember saying once when we were going through your Facebook page together. She had her arms crossed, knowingly, to give herself a cleavage, and she was pouting like an advert for a sexy phone line. Underneath she had written: Cheeky little selfie, how do I look? There was another one of her in her underwear. She had taken the photo in the mirror; there was a star where the flash had bounced on the glass.

‘Look at this one!’ I said. ‘She looks about twenty-five!’ She did, love. She looked as wise, as knowing and as cynical as a fresh divorcee. At fifteen!

‘Oh, Mum you’re so stuck in the Ice Age,’ you said. ‘They’re celebrating their bodies and that’s their right. You’re just body shaming.’

‘But – but…’ I stuttered. Body shaming? I had no idea what you meant. ‘They’re not celebrating anything, baby girl, they’re asking for approval. These are advertising posters, they’re shop windows displaying their wares, like, well, like prostitutes, frankly, like you see in the knocking-shop fronts in Amsterdam. Honestly, Rosie, some of them may as well put a price tag on and have done with it. I might be stuck in the Ice Age, my love, but at least we didn’t confuse being attractive with being a commodity.’

‘It’s not like that any more.’ Your voice was thick with exasperation. ‘Women should be allowed to do what they want with their bodies. They’re proud of them. They see it as, like, a powerful feminist statement.’

‘Powerful, my backside.’

‘Don’t say that! You’re putting it all on the girls. We should be allowed to wear what we want and do what we want. It’s not our fault if some perv can’t control himself, is it?’

‘You’re all so flaming naïve. You’ve no idea how dangerous it is to post pictures of yourself like that. You don’t know who could be looking at those pictures, and I tell you what, lady, if I catch you doing it, you can say goodbye to Face—’

‘Oh, don’t worry, you won’t.’ You had raised your voice – you were almost shouting. ‘Because I won’t be doing anything normal, like, ever, because you just want me to be a weirdo. I’ll carry on being the only girl in the entire world who doesn’t have Snapchat or Instagram or go to parties or clubs or drink or smoke, and then I’ll just go and live in a convent or something or, like, like, like a Buddhist retreat, and I’ll never have a boyfriend or do anything normal, ever, in my whole, entire life.’

And with that, of course, you stomped out and slammed the kitchen door, leaving me with nothing to do but sigh and turn to my shaky reflection in the window.

‘That went well, Toni,’ I said to my own fractured image in the glass. ‘Fabulous bit of parenting. Congratu-fucking-lations.’

At least you weren’t posting sexy selfies. That’s what I told myself, to make myself feel better. But of course, just because I couldn’t see any sexy shots on your page didn’t mean you weren’t taking them, did it?