So.

Felina is my mum, my real name is Tiger Pussycat (for goodness’ sake), and Gram has been keeping this secret all my life.

It’s the picture in the article: it’s Felina without make-up, in the days before stardom, and it’s the same one as we have downstairs on the mantelpiece. I don’t even need to go downstairs to check.

It just is.

She’s pretty, probably about sixteen, with an optimistic smile and a cheeky look. I can easily see the resemblance. It’s there in the pale, bright, grey-blue eyes, exactly like mine. Her hair too: strawberry blonde – or as Gram likes to call it, ‘spun gold’.

There are even some spots on her chin that her concealer has not quite succeeded in concealing.

I pick up the photo of Felina in full make-up and sunglasses, hair dyed deep auburn, and hold the two pictures side by side. It’s obvious, once you know. It’s in the shape of the face, the slightly pointed chin.

But if you didn’t know? No way could you tell.

I read the accompanying article as quickly as I can, but there’s nothing new in it that I haven’t read before. It’s just that picture, and the caption: In happier times: a teenage Felina.

I turn the page, and my stomach lurches.

There’s a headline:

Did This Picture Cause Felina’s Downfall?

And there she is: snapped by a paparazzi photographer, looking startled. Her hair is wet and hanging in strands. It’s night-time, and the roads are wet from rain. Her left hand is holding a cigarette, and her right hand is gripping the wrist of an unhappy-looking child of about three.

The caption to the photo reads: Felina last night with her daughter, Tiger Pussycat.

That’s what Great-gran was saying: Tiger Pussycat.

My name.

Me.