Mum? Mummy? Are you there? Emily? I’m not underwater. Not really. I am dry… soft… softness below me… cleanness… crispness. Beep beep…

Smell of coffee… clank of the coffee machine, roar of milk on the steam jet. A man’s voice shouts, One large skinny latte, one regular cappuccino for Emily.

Emily. Light flashes like cream on the lenses of her glasses. So what’s this getting-sick business all about?

Emily. She’s opposite me. We’re in the coffee bar. Her cheeks are like Pink Lady apples.

I know when this is!

Mummy? Mum?

Hold on, Mum! I am… OK, this is in the café with Emily. This is after you went mental at me in the car park. That is when this is. That was so embarrassing, Mum. Oh my God, you were being proper mental.

But I was mean to you in front of Emily. You were stressed, and I made you look stupid. I’m sorry. But that’s not what I’m really sorry about. There’s something else, something bigger, like a fist in my gut, but every time I think I remember, it disappears… What is it?

Do you think you can tell me? Emily’s voice is soft and near. Her face. Light flashing on her glasses. She is not chuckling. We are in the café. She is not saying silly moo or any of her batshit stuff. She is like Auntie Bridge – when she’s serious, she’s very serious. I am drinking cappuccino, which is coffee. OK, so it has cocoa on the top, but it is not a halfway house; it is a proper grown-up drink. I have put three sachets of sugar in it.

Tell you what? That’s my voice. I hear it inside my head; see myself say it there in my memory.

Emily lays her soft, dry hand over mine and pats it once, twice, before taking it away. Whatever you want, my darling. But I’m wondering about this nervous-tummy thing. That’s twice now, isn’t it? I’m wondering how I can help or if we can stop it before it becomes a real problem. She smiles. She blows on her coffee, but she doesn’t drink any. She’s on a diet, that’s why she’s having a skinny latte. I suppose I wondered if perhaps you’d like to talk about it. God forbid, I would never want you to say anything you didn’t want to. Of course it goes without saying that this would be in the strictest confidence. Do you think you can talk about it?

She blinks. Her face is kind.

I… I say. Sometimes I get nervous.

She gives a slow nod. On her neck, the skin crinkles. Her hair is kind of white at the front, dark grey at the back, and her cheeks droop at either side of her chin. I don’t want to look like her when I’m older. I want to look like Auntie Bridge. Auntie Bridge’s hair is spiky. My tattoo will be theatre masks on my wrist. I stare down at my hands, flat and pale on the table, the nails bitten, patches of black nail varnish. I need to clean that off – it looks rank. You need nice hands to be an actress. You need to look after yourself.

You know, Rosie darling, nerves are all part of it. She lays her hand on mine again: her right, my left. Her palm is dry and warm. This time she leaves her hand there. We all get nervous, my dear. It’s the business we’re in. Nerves, emotions, feelings, they’re what we trade in, aren’t they? We emote. We give. So those emotions, those nerves, what have you, they’re important. They give us access to the things we need to convey. They allow us to move people through our art, do you see?

I nod my head, yes.

And I know you suffer, because I too suffer. We artists, we suffer. We suffer more than most – it is the cross we must bear, my dear. But nerves, or super-sensitivity, or whatever you wish to call it, give us the energy we need to shine. And I know you can shine, Rosie. I have seen you. We should maybe think about finding ways of coping, how do you feel about that?

Do you mean like CBT? Auntie Bridge did CBT. She’s taught me some things to help with anxiety.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel miserable. You’re not supposed to tell others what the people closest to you tell you not to tell, especially if they’re family. You taught me that, Mum. And I’ve just told Emily something Auntie Bridge told me to keep to myself.

We had CBT classes after the accident. I only say this to try and make up for what I said before, but I think I’ve made it worse even though I know she knows about the accident and everything. Mum saw a counsellor for ages. That’s definitely worse. That’s private. I shouldn’t have said that either. I think I saw one too, but I can’t remember. Auntie Bridge gives me exercises, like I have to say the notes: do re mi fa so la ti do, and I do breathing and it calms me down. That’s how I got the part of Little Red. It’s how I go on stage.

Emily gives me a big smile, as if I’ve done something brave. She sips her coffee and puts the cup back into the saucer so slowly and gently it doesn’t make a sound.

Good, she says. Good girl. That’s a start. It’s good that you’ve all had help. Sometimes we need help. It’s natural, under the circumstances.

I stare at my black, scabby nails. I am heavy with guilt. You tell me guilt is a wasted emotion, but I think it is telling us to look at what we’ve done and ask ourselves if we should have done it, and if the answer is no, then it’s a way of thinking, well I won’t do that again. I can’t go back and not say those things, can I? I can’t not tell Emily our family business because I’ve told her now. It’s too late to put the words back in, and I have a pain of shame in my gut.

But I can promise not to say those things again, can’t I?

It’s not too late, is it? Is it, Mummy?