I’m mooching around the garden trying to find something interesting to snap with my camera. I’m kind of obsessed with photographs. I love the way that they’re memory evidence, total proof that you saw something or did something or were just there. It’s not actually raining for a change, and I’m starting to enjoy myself when Mum marches out through the kitchen door. She has that look of determination that I know so well – and I know there is no point in trying to (a) escape from her or (b) argue my way out of whatever it is that she wants me to do.

‘Right, come on, Liv, let’s get moving.’

She says this as if we have plans, as if I have the foggiest idea of what she’s going on about.

I stare at her blankly.

‘Chop chop – I haven’t got all day.’

She turns round and walks back towards the house and then, sensing that I haven’t moved, spins back to look at me.

To be perfectly honest, I’m not in the mood for this. I’ve had a rubbish day at school. I thought I’d got away with it – however, it turns out that gossip moves slowly but steadily through our school and Moronic Louise Phillips had obviously just heard all about my excruciating experience in Hair & Things. She spent the whole day making stupid comments about how cool it is to be able to wear earrings, and flicking her hair about so that everyone could admire her obviously fake gold hoops. The only good bit was when Mr Jackson, our science teacher, threatened to confiscate them if she ever wore them to school again. I tried to ignore her but she has one of those voices that really gets in your head and buzzes about, like an irritating insect.

I probably shouldn’t have called her a liar, though. I know it’s better to just let her get on with it and that confronting her only makes her worse, but I couldn’t just stand there and let her talk down about Mum.

‘My mum’s so cool,’ she said. ‘Not like your mum at all. Honestly, Liv – how do you cope having such a control freak for a mother?’ Her ridiculous friends all sniggered and I could feel Alice pulling my arm and trying to walk us away. My blood was boiling, though. I mean, yeah – my mum can be a total nightmare sometimes, but that’s for me to say, not Moronic Louise.

‘Actually,’ she carried on, ‘my mum said that I can get my nose pierced and that as soon as I’m eighteen she’ll take me to get a tattoo!’ Her friends all ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ like the pathetic hangers-on that they are.

‘What will you have done?’ asked Molly, Louise’s second-in-command.

That’s when I should have walked away. But I didn’t and the sound of Moronic Louise debating whether she’d look cuter with a tattoo of a rose, or a tattoo of her puppy, made me want to throw up. So I volunteered my own suggestion – that she was a total liar and there’s no way that her mum would let her do that. I said that I thought she’d look particularly striking with the letters M-O-R-O-N tattooed across her forehead. And then I offered to save her time and money by doing it myself with a biro.

She was obviously not mad keen on my idea, or particularly pleased that some of the boys in our class overheard me and laughed. A lot. So it was probably my own fault that she decided it’d be oh-so-hilarious to tell Ben that I fancy him. Actually, I really do, but as he started making retching noises and rolling his eyes at his mates, I had to pretend it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever heard and that ‘I wouldn’t go out with him if aliens had inhabited earth and he was my only hope of survival’. So that’s the end of that. Thanks, Louise.

Anyway, Mum has been in a really foul mood all week. She keeps snapping at Dad for coming home late and then on Wednesday, she didn’t come back from work until really late and I missed going to Guides. She didn’t even tell me that she’d be late – I could have been really worried. Alice said Guides was a total laugh and they made peppermint creams, but they wouldn’t set and were all runny and went everywhere, and Sophie (chief, most-important, bow-down-before-her, Head Guider) went mad and it was hysterical.

So I am not particularly interested in whatever dumb activity Mum may have dreamt up for me, especially as she seems to have an allergic reaction to the sight of me chilling out and doing my own thing.

‘Liv, I’m serious – move yourself right now. Don’t make me count to five like you’re four years old!’

This is a bit rich coming from a woman who seems to believe that the clocks all stopped when I became a toddler and that I haven’t actually matured since.

‘I’m busy, Mum. What is it?’ I whine, ever hopeful that she’ll go away and leave me alone.

‘Busy! Doing what, may I ask?’

No, actually, you may not … I might not look like I’m doing very much but there’s a lot of thinking going on here.

‘Could it be that you’re busy doing your homework? Or frantically tidying your bedroom? Or maybe working on a plan for worldwide peace and harmony?’ My mother can be very sarcastic. ‘Hmm, I thought not – so clean that mud off your trainers, get inside, wash your hands thoroughly and meet me in the kitchen in three minutes. You can take your photos later.’

She strides back inside, a mother on a mission, and I grudgingly start to move. That’s another thing about my mum. If she issues you with a direct instruction, she expects you to comply with it exactly – and she is very precise about what she expects. I mean, why three minutes? Anyone else would have said ‘a few minutes’ or ‘when you’ve washed your hands’, but not her. She’ll have planned just how long I can reasonably be expected to take to carry out her demands, and probably added thirty seconds for the sulking part where I pretend that I’m not going to do what she’s asked.

Which is what I’m doing now and – oops – time’s up, so I’d better get a wriggle on. No point in annoying her. Who knows, maybe she wants to take me shopping or to the cinema or something else cool. She didn’t actually say what it was she wanted me for, did she?

Precisely thirty-eight minutes later and I am not happily browsing this season’s latest look, nor am I settling down with a bucket of toffee popcorn to watch a film.

No – I am standing at the work surface in our kitchen, chopping a red pepper and listening to Mum explain why, if need be, man (or woman) can live on spaghetti Bolognese alone.

For some reason, known only to her, it is utterly crucial that I learn how to concoct this wondrous dish today. This task cannot wait until a rainy day, or indeed a day when I actually feel like touching squirmy, wormy strands of beef (sometime never). Mum has decided that I need to learn to cook now and that she is the one best equipped to teach me – which is bizarre, cos Mum hates cooking and is actually an awful cook.

I’m not being mean here, or saying anything I wouldn’t say to her face. She knows how bad her food is and she’s as happy as the rest of us on the days that Dad gets back from work early enough to cook supper. So this lesson is a bit inappropriate and fairly unnecessary. I have no intention of ever needing to know how to cook. When I’m working in my high-powered job I’ll just get takeaways, or maybe marry someone who’s a good cook. Sorted.

‘The thing is, Liv, a meal like this can provide all the necessary nutrients needed for a healthy lifestyle. If you make sure that you buy lean meat and throw some extra vegetables in and serve it with grated cheese, you’re basically covered.’

‘That’s great, Mum.’ I keep chopping my pepper. Best to humour her when she’s like this.

‘And I’ve chosen this meal to teach you because – guess what!’

‘I don’t know, Mum – what?’

‘It isn’t just a spaghetti Bolognese!’

‘No! What else could it possibly be? A flat-screen TV? A new mobile phone? Wait – I’ve got it! A buy-one-get-one-free voucher for a pizza! Something I’d actually be interested in?’

‘Less cheek from you, madam, thank you! No, what I was about to say was that this meal can be used as a pasta sauce or with baked potatoes, or you can add some kidney beans for an instant chilli con carne. It’s extremely versatile and you’ll thank me one day for sharing my culinary wisdom with you!’ Mum tries to swat me with the tea towel and I dodge out of the way, giggling. She starts laughing too, and for the next few minutes we chop our vegetables together and I tell her about the French test I aced today.

The pepper has been chopped into the tiniest pieces possible (Isaac hates peppers and always picks them out of his food, so I am working hard to make this extra difficult for him).

‘Shall I put this in the pan now?’ I ask, thrusting the fruits (or vegetables) of my labour in front of her.

Mum looks up and I see a tear dripping silently down her cheek, followed by another. She sees me looking and quickly brushes them away.

‘Mum?’ I put my hand on her arm. ‘Are you crying?’

She shrugs me off with a laugh.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Liv! I’m chopping onions – it always makes my eyes water. Not sure why, must be to do with oniony chemicals. Or something. We could Google it. What do you think – have you learnt about onions in school?’

My mother is rambling. I keep on looking at her, searching her face for evidence of more tears, but they seem to have dried up – which is funny because now she’s chopping onions as if her life depended on it.

‘Get the olive oil out of the cupboard and bring it over here,’ she says, not looking at me. I do what she tells me, feeling worried but not really sure why.

‘Now just slosh a bit in this pan.’ Mum points to a pan on top of the stove and I take the lid off the oil.

‘Does it actually say “slosh” in the recipe book?’ I ask her.

‘What recipe book?’ answers Mum, and she finally looks across at me and grins. I stifle a groan. This is not good news. Mum’s experimental cooking is never a success.

I follow her instructions, although there’s a good chance that when she said ‘slosh’ she didn’t mean half the bottle. She gets me to turn on the hob and then hovers next to me while I heat up the oil, acting like I might set myself on fire at any moment. I tell her that I have used a stove before, at school, but she still stays right next to me.

Soon the smell of frying onions fills the kitchen and I sniff deeply. I love that smell – it always makes me think about carnivals and fairs and bonfires and barbecues. Hot dogs and burgers and eating outdoors. It reminds me of staying up late and half falling asleep, cuddled up to Mum. We tip the beef into the pan and I stir it, watching as the disgusting pink strands change colour. Then Mum says that it doesn’t really matter what goes in – that the chef gets to choose and it can be different every time. I add the peppers and some tins of chopped tomatoes and give everything a good stir. That was actually quite easy. I reckon I could make spag Bol on my own, no problem. Not sure why Mum made such a big deal of it.

Mum gathers up the empty tins and starts to tidy the kitchen. There’s a surprising amount of mess – yet another reason for just ordering a takeaway, in my opinion.

‘Everything’s sorted here. You get back to your photos, sweetheart! Good job with the chopping – try to remember everything I showed you, won’t you?’ she says.

I take off the ridiculous apron that she made me wear and start to head back into the garden, but something makes me pause. Seeing me stop, Mum dashes over and gives me a huge hug – the sort of hug that starts to feel uncomfortable because the hugger is holding the huggee so tightly that the huggee thinks they might actually suffocate and end up with Olivia Ellis, Hugged To Death, aged eleven and a half years on their gravestone.

After what feels like a lifetime she lets go and heads back to the tidying up, and I go outside. I thought that I wanted to relax and get a bit of peace, but it’s suddenly really cold and I don’t feel like being on my own.

I think about what just happened. Was Mum crying? The thing is, I’ve seen Mum cry loads but it’s always noisy and a bit dramatic, and usually sparked by a sad film that she seems to think is actually about her. She did cry once on her birthday when she and Dad had agreed a £10 budget and he spent it all in Oxfam, buying about a million rubbish books that nobody wanted, especially not her (which was what she yelled at him in between sobbing that it was her worst birthday ever) – but then he took her out shopping for new boots and a meal, so it all ended up OK and they even laugh about it now.

The point is that I have never, ever seen my mum cry quietly and I have never heard her deny that she is crying. She likes to wear her emotions openly like badges and doesn’t really do angst – she always says there’s no point in being miserable unless everyone knows that you’re miserable cos then they can do something about it …

I decide that, probably, there’re a few things that I could learn about how to boil spaghetti, so it’s not a bad idea to go back inside and help Mum out with the rest of the supper. There’s a darkness in the garden that I didn’t notice before and the kitchen suddenly seems like a good place to hang out.

There’s more of a chance that supper will actually be edible if I go and help, anyway. And I’m feeling a bit odd inside, like something is wrong somewhere, and that hanging out with Mum might make me feel OK again.