Emily drives, chattering like she does. I was over in Kempton having a mosey around the market, she says. I saw the most marvellous Welsh dresser but it was too big for the dining room, and when I put my nail to it, the paint scratched off. They obviously hadn’t sanded and primed adequately… preparation, dear, as we know, is key. Anyhoo, I was on my way back when I saw you there. Did you get my text, by the way? I sent it after we spoke.

Sorry, no. I left my phone at home.

You did? Right you are. And is your mum in today?

Think so. I remember our argument. I feel terrible now. You knew I was lying, didn’t you? You always know.

What about your aunt?

Auntie Bridge? She’s gone to meet her friend Saph, I think.

We drive past the Prince Albert pub, then Twickenham Green. My tummy still has butterflies in it. I breathe in, breathe out. Do re mi fa so la ti do.

Not like you to leave your phone, dear, Emily says, and chuckles at her witty sarcasm.

I had a fight with Mum.

Oh dear, that’s too bad. What about? The usual?

I nod. I don’t feel like telling her any more. I don’t want to feel that stomach ache I get when I talk to her about you. I already feel sick after that man. His breath, his dirty glasses. I don’t feel like I’m going to cry or anything, but I feel like I could, like I’m near. I don’t feel right. Do re mi fa so la ti do. Do re mi fa so la ti do. Breathe in; breathe out.

We pass by the end of the road that leads to our close. I wave to you. I wave to you, Mummy, like a kid. Maybe I am a kid sometimes. I don’t know what I am really. We pass through St Margaret’s, then over the bridge to Richmond, and I think how awesome it looks, like a postcard or a painting of an old-fashioned riverfront. I can imagine women in long white dresses in the olden days, holding parasols, strolling along in front of the tall buildings and sitting on the sloping grass verges. Men with straw hats and those twirly moustaches. There are little boats on the river. A swan trails a long V behind it in the water. My breathing evens out a bit. It’s so cool with the sunroof down.

Emily turns right. We drive along the road that goes past the poppy factory. The river plays hide-and-seek between the restaurants and houses. Emily isn’t talking any more, which is weird for her.

You live in Ham, don’t you? I say.

That’s right, dear. Good town for an actor, wouldn’t you say?

I know she is joking because she chuckles, but I don’t get it. What does Ham have to do with acting?

You know ham’s a word for an actor, don’t you? She has read my mind, probably because I didn’t react. Actors have to be good at reading people.

Ham like ham and cheese?

She chuckles. Like ham and pickle, ham sandwich, what have you. Haven’t you heard of the expression hamming it up?

Maybe.

You know when an actor is overacting, going too big; not so much brave choices but huge melodramatic gestures, hand-wringing and wailing and so forth, do you know what I mean? You’ve seen EastEnders, haven’t you?

I nod, but I don’t say about Helen writing the scripts sometimes.

So when an actor has a reputation for overacting, we call him or her a ham. Or you can say his or her acting was a bit hammy. In fact, quite often, if you’re doing the cryptic crossword in the Guardian or the Telegraph, they use ‘ham’ for an actor in the clues, so for example they’ll put something like, I don’t know, ‘compass points around an actor feel this and blush’. And you’ll have the s and the e for your compass points, that is, your south and your east, then you put those around the ham of actor which gives you shame – feels this and blushes – blushes with shame. That would be your answer, do you see? Not a very good example, but that’s off the top of the old noggin.

I nod. I don’t really understand what she’s going on about. At least she’s back to normal, jabbering on, as you say, ten to the dozen.

She turns right at Ham Common. There are ducks on the pond and some people having a picnic in their coats. Another few turns and she parks at the kerb. I realise I didn’t look to see which road this is.

Lucky with a space, dear, she says. We’re right outside.

She leads the way through a little white gate in a little white fence. Number 31. The front garden is so neat; there are little red flowers in the beds and the soil is all crumbly, like when you first dig it over. There are no weeds. I think of you digging the flower beds in the garden of our river house when I was very little, your lilac gloves, the way your hair blew across your forehead, stuck to the sweat sometimes when you’d been working hard in the sun. Emily’s little lawn has a pond in the middle with lily pads. The grass edge looks as though it has been combed and cut with scissors. There are two gnomes sitting by the pond, both exactly the same, both fishing. On the front step there is a rectangular parcel about the size of a shoebox for, like, men’s size 12 shoes.

Ah. Post’s arrived, Emily says, unlocking the door. I know what that is. Come in, dear.

I follow. The front door is light blue and there is a red-and-white gingham curtain across the window. It is so pretty.

I like your house, I say. It looks, like, country-ish.

Did I tell you I grew up on a farm? We moved here when Mummy and Daddy passed on.

Inside, there is a sugary smell, like someone’s been baking.

Pop your coat off if you like, Emily says.

I take off my jacket and hang it on the hook. The hall carpet is patterned with flowers, thick and soft under my feet. I follow Emily into the kitchen at the back. The kitchen is kind of shiny, and under the baking smell it smells of lemon Flash, like she’s just cleaned it this morning or something. There’s a pretty back door the same blue colour as the front door, with the same pretty red-and-white gingham curtains on the window. On the countertop, next to the cooker, there are scones on a cooling rack. On the table on a tray are a butter dish, cups and saucers and a pot of honey with a cute little wooden spoon thing sticking out.

Emily tells me to sit down, so I sit at the table. She opens the fridge and pulls out a jug with the same pattern as the cups and puts it on the tray. I notice that one cup has blue flowers and the other one has orange. She fills the kettle. It is one of those ones that go on the gas. I wonder if it will whistle. The cooker is dark brown and old – it is one of those ones that have the stove and the oven all together. But it is clean. Everything is clean.

Emily lights the gas with a match and blows it out. Under her breath she is humming a tune I recognise… ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’. She picks up a sharp knife from the countertop and holds it up. It gives me a fright.

She chuckles. No need to be afraid, dear. Let’s see what in this parcel, shall we?

She slides the knife along the packing tape and lifts out a box. It is not shoes. It is another gnome; at least that’s the picture on the outside. She opens the box and pulls out a plaster gnome with a red hat and a fishing rod. It is exactly the same as the others and I think this makes Emily a bit batshit. But then I knew that.

Here you are. It is the gnome she’s talking to, not me. She holds it up and wrinkles her nose like when you speak to a baby in a pram. Welcome to your new home, she says in a baby voice. I think we’ll call you Barnaby. She looks at me. What do you think, Rosie dear? Is Barnaby a good name for a gnome?

Yes, I say. I wonder if the others are all called Barnaby too, but I don’t ask in case she says yes. That would totally freak me out.

You can go and play with your brothers very soon, Barnaby, she tells the gnome. But first Rosie and I are going to have our tea, all right?

I look at my knees, where they poke out of my jeans. I feel my cheeks burn. I’m embarrassed for her, not me.

The kettle whistles. Emily makes the tea and puts the pot on the table. She gives me a scone on a plate, the same flowery pattern. Everything is so pretty and fresh and nice.

Now then, this jug is the most terrible pourer, she says. Help yourself to butter and honey, my darling. She takes the cups over to the sink and pours the milk while I cut my scone in half and spread some butter and honey on it. The honey spoon isn’t a spoon – it’s a wooden stick with a spiral thing on the end.

Shall I be Mum? Emily is back at the table. She picks up the teapot and pours tea into my cup. Sugar?

No thanks. This scone is delicious.

Why thank you!

She talks to me about scones. How she shouldn’t eat them because they go to her hips. She tells me that the secret to baking good scones is not to over-handle them. I nod even though I’m like, why do I care?

Isn’t that right, Barnaby? she says, to the gnome, and laughs.

I sort of laugh too, but then I proper laugh because I think of telling you and Auntie Bridge about this later – hilarious.

Drink your tea, Emily says.

I drink my tea.

There, she says, holding hers with both hands, her top lip puckering like a drawstring purse. Can’t beat a nice cuppa char! And Owen will be here any moment.

Who’s Owen? I ask.

Owen? she says, as if she’s thinking of something else. He’s my brother, dear.

I wish I didn’t have to meet her brother. I wish we didn’t have to have tea; I just want to pick up the audition notes and get home to you. But it would be rude to say that, so I don’t.

Emily smiles – but not at me. It’s as if she’s smiling at someone or something I can’t see in front of her. And she’s stopped talking again.

I do a massive yawn. I feel soooo tired, like, proper exhausted.

There is a buzzing sound. It is coming from the window. It is a wasp, banging itself against the windowpane over and over. There is a plastic bottle on the windowsill. It has been cut in half and the top half has been put into the bottom half, upside down. At the bottom of the bottle is what looks like a load of runny honey. There are dead wasps in the honey, which look gross. The alive wasp buzzes along to the bottle top and crawls round and down the home-made funnel thing. It can smell the honey. I want to call out to it – stop! – but I don’t like wasps, and anyway it is already at the bottleneck.

It buzzes, hovers, drops into the honey.

There are three cups and saucers on the tray now and I wonder if there were three before and I just didn’t count properly or whether Emily put another out while I wasn’t looking. I think about how this morning Emily said, I hope he’s handsome, even though I’ve never told her about Ollie, and this gives me a pain in my stomach, but I am so tired, so tired, I could put my head on the table and sleep.

From the back garden there’s a squeak like a gate opening.

That’ll be Owen, Emily says.

The wasp buzzes. It is stuck in the honey. It will die there, like the rest.

The back door opens.

Well, well, well, young lady. I recognise the voice. When I turn, I see that it is the baldy man, the man from the café, the one with the dirty glasses. He smiles at me and says, Fancy seeing you here.

Hello there, Owen, says Emily. You’re just in time for tea.