When I get home the house is in darkness. I find a note on the kitchen table. Mum’s writing looks blurry although that could be the vodka and cokes Niall bought me in The Boathouse. He’s the only one who always gets served without question, especially if we go there during Aidan’s shift. Aidan has a bit of a thing for Niall which Niall plays beautifully, despite the face on Aisha.

Don’t wait up.

Hope you had a good time.

Mx

I don’t know where she is. I call her mobile but it goes straight to voicemail. I leave a message. I check my phone but she hasn’t texted me. I run to the calendar on the fridge. There’s nothing there for Wednesday night. I pace the kitchen, scrolling through my contacts wondering who to call. It’s really late.

I open the front door and run across the little bit of grass that divides our house from the Llewellyns’ next door and ring their doorbell. They don’t answer so I ring it again and again and again until I see lights going on. I hear the key in the door and the latch.

‘Hope?’ It’s Mr Llewellyn, tying his dressing gown round his waist. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘No. I mean, sorry to bother you, but is my mum in there?’ I point past him into his house and hear how stupid my question sounds. He looks even more worried now.

Mrs Llewellyn pushes him to one side. ‘No, Erin’s not here, Hope. What’s wrong? What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know where she is!’ I wail. Mrs Llewellyn pulls me into their hallway as Mr Llewellyn gets the phone. He’s calling someone, I don’t know who.

Mum never does stuff like this. She doesn’t really go out and she always tells me where she’s going. I’m finding it difficult to breathe. I want to run out of their house, when I hear a car pull up outside. Mr Llewellyn walks out. I hear voices and laughter which switches quickly to something else.

I can hear Mum’s voice. Mum calls out bye to someone, presumably whoever has just dropped her off and then walks up to the Llewellyns. I can see her face in the glow of the street lights. She grabs my hand, thanks the Llewellyns, who look confused, and marches me back home. She drops my hand to unlock the front door. I stand there in the dark, as she takes off her heels, puts her bag on the floor and her keys in the pot.

‘Get in!’ she shouts, making me jump. I almost run inside. She closes the front door behind me, taking great care not to slam it. She locks it and turns to face me.

‘Hope, what the hell are you playing at?’ She bangs her hand against the switch, flooding the hallway with light, with a violence which hurts my head. She has a lot of make-up on – liquid eyeliner making her eyes even darker. And she smells of cinnamon, a different perfume from the one she used to wear, spicier. She’s got a floaty dress on, long dangly silver earrings, bracelets and a necklace. I can’t think of the last time I saw her like this, dressed up, made up, wearing going-out clothes. She looks beautiful, but tired beautiful and I want to say something nice to her, but she’s frightened me.

‘Where’ve you been? It’s so late,’ I accuse. ‘I got home and you weren’t here and then you didn’t answer your phone and I started to worry.’

She walks past me into the kitchen. I watch her fill the kettle.

‘I said, where have you been?’

‘I told you where I was going: Italian lessons at college…’ She stops fiddling with the teabags and stares at me, looking worried.

And I remember. She did tell me. We talked about it, before I went out. How could I have forgotten?

‘Yes, obviously. I meant where have you been since then, since your Italian class?’ I try to say it as if I’ve known all this time exactly where she was.

As if I’ve known all this time that she was safe and well and not dead behind the wheel of her car or squashed by a bus or lying on the stage in a concert hall because her heart has stopped dead in its tracks.

‘We went out for drinks, after the class,’ she starts so simply, it must be true. She’s fine. She’s absolutely fine and hasn’t been in any danger at all.

She passes me a mug of tea which I don’t want. I take a reluctant sip. I want to take it up to bed with me and just crawl in under the covers and hide. But I can’t. I have to act normal.

‘…but I wasn’t expecting to come home to that! You look tired. I don’t think you’re even listening to what I just said,’ she says and I wonder what she asked me. I draw a complete blank and decide to turn the spotlight back on her for safety.

‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ I challenge.

‘I doubt I could hear it in the pub, sorry!’ she says, as if it’s nothing to her. ‘What were you ringing me for anyway? Shouldn’t I be the one waiting up for you?’ she jokes.

‘Am I going to get to meet any of these new student friends of yours?’ I change the subject.

‘Ah, Hope, it isn’t what you think. Is that what this is all about?’ She sits down at the table next to me and blows too hard on her hot tea. It bubbles up. ‘I can’t believe you bothered the Llewellyns with this. We’ll have to say sorry in the morning. Maybe you should take them some flowers or a bottle of wine.’ She looks in the wine rack to see if there’s anything decent there.

‘Why are you suddenly taking Italian lessons?’

‘Nonno. He’s insisting that we go and visit them – him and your Aunt Gianna – in Italy for Christmas. I don’t know the language and I don’t want to get lost with you in the hire car and end up being mugged or worse at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I have to take care of us now, so the least I can do is speak the bloody language! I have to be able to look after you properly and I can’t do that if I can’t speak Italian. I have to be able to protect you, it’s all up to me!’ she shouts.

I jump out of my chair and put my arms around her as her sobs rip at my insides.

‘Please don’t cry, Mum. We don’t have to road trip it like Dad always did. We can just fly. And I’ve got an app on my phone that can translate everything for us, it’s easy. I’ll download it to your phone too, then you can get used to it. We can do all this kind of stuff together, together.’ I hadn’t realised she felt like this, so on her own.

‘We need a break, don’t we? Actually, I’m not too bad at Italian. I never bothered really when your dad was here. But he’s not here, is he?’ She takes a massive gulp of her tea to stop herself from either crying or saying any more. I’m not sure which. Her mascara has run. She looks like the end of a long night, tired out and a bit smudged.

‘So, we’re definitely going to Italy. You and me, yes?’ I whisper.

‘Yes, it’s done now. We’re going,’ she sounds terrified and relieved. ‘Now, do you want something to eat?’ she asks, moving neatly back into Mum mode. ‘Or is that a daft question?’

When I climb into bed later – after we’ve had cheese and biscuits and listened to Dad’s Carol King and James Taylor album – I check my phone.

Are you awake? Whatcha doing?

Tell me funny things and entertain me. Got a hangover already and I haven’t even gone to sleep yet.

What’s all this talk of hangovers? Was drink taken? Was the craic mighty?

Drink taken where, outside? Talk properly. And what’s mighty craic? Do you mean crack?

Dear God, do you not know how to spell woman? Why don’t you use your old friend Google and find out what craic is.

Went to see a play then went to the pub. You?

Went straight to the pub. I’m locked.

Locked out?

Na, you know, like locked, drinks-wise. Don’t really feel like spending another day on the farm tomorrow with me head up a cow’s arse. Rather be out there, seeing the real world.

A cow’s arse? You can’t just chuck in a reference to a cow’s arse like that. Are you pissed?

C’mon now, I’ve told you we live on a farm, course I have, you’ve just not been paying attention.

You’re a disgusting chauvinistic pig!

Flatterer but I’m on a dairy farm not a pig farm. Now, have you got over yourself yet?

What do you mean?

The whole I want to be famous and go on the stage caper.

I never said I wanted to be famous. And I’ve already told you I went to the theatre tonight. It nearly killed me.

Cop on, woman, and stop with all the self-pity shite. Going to see a wee play isn’t going to kill you. Try out for another drama place.

You don’t try out, this is theatre not athletics. You audition.

Audition then. Chicken?

I never said I can’t do it!

Then what’s stopping you. I wouldn’t let anything get in my way, that’s 4 sure.

Really? When are you off on your travels then?

She shoots, she scores. Back of the net.

You started it.

Alright, truce? Now, there’s arses out there that need my attention come the morning. Yours isn’t too bad if I remember rightly although I could do with a wee picture, just to tide me over?

Not on your life and less chat about arses, thank you.

Text me tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about the dirty cow I spent the day with.

I can’t wait. I’ll be sitting by my phone all day awaiting your wit and Irish charm.

Challenge accepted. Fair warning mind, you won’t know whether to swoon or sext me once I unleash my charm offensive on you.

Yeah, offensive is about right. If you’re sexting tomorrow I’ll be blocking ;)

OH MY GOD SHE USED A SMILEY FACE! SHE HAS GONE EMOTICON CRAZY. Where will this madness lead? Next there’ll be LOLing and FMLing. Maybe you’re the pissed one?

Go and find your dirty cow, some of us have to be up for work in the morning.

C’mere, that’s not all that’s up in the morning.

Thought you said charm not smarm.

Noted. Night, Ms CAPS LOCK ;) ;) ;)

Night, Dublin.