Sunday 16 February

1 p.m.

Back from church and the phone’s just rung. Mother’s taken it into the garden, which is suspicious. I can hear her giggling. Very Interesting.

1.10 p.m.

‘Who was that?’ I just asked her.

‘No one,’ she said. ‘No one important.’

1.45 p.m.

William’s been round. He still hasn’t found his hamster. He said his dad’s probably drunk it.

‘How was the pitch and putt?’ I asked. ‘I hear you stuffed your balls down the girls’ trousers?’ Apparently, I’d got it wrong. They’d been stuffing the girls’ balls down their own trousers. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘An altogether more sophisticated soirée.’

‘You,’ he said, tweaking up his hair in the mirror above my bed, ‘can bugger right off I could smell something floral, like he’s started using gel.

I’ve just rung Julie. She said Uncle Bert asked her questions about Mother all the way home.

2 p.m.

Mother has moved the chair into the middle of the sitting room, so she can see her reflection in the mirror. She’s trying on clothes.

She’s run herself a bath. It’s not even three o’clock in the afternoon.

6.30 p.m.

Jack’s come round to babysit. ‘I didn’t know Mother was going out?’ I said.

‘Nor did I,’ he answered.

The house smells of rose and geranium.

7 p.m

Mother has vacated the building. She says she’s meeting her friend Carol. I don’t believe her. I said, ‘Mother. I need to know where you are going. For security reasons.’

She laughed. ‘I won’t be late,’ she said. ‘It’s not far.’

‘Where isn’t?’ I said.

‘Chez Pierre,’ she said. ‘In the high street.’

11.30 p.m.

I fell asleep. I meant to stay awake to see who dropped her home. The house is dark and silent. I’ll tiptoe down to see if I can find any evidence.

11.33 p.m.

I’m back. Mother’s asleep – alone – on the sofa bed. There are no coffee mugs, no long blond hairs. But her jacket’s on the banisters and you couldn’t miss it. The sweet, unmistakable smell of cKone.