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My mother turns then, perfect white teeth gritted. ‘I don’t want to talk about this. You want to be angry. I don’t.’

With my mother, it’s always someone else’s fault.

I’m held in a tight, tense bunch on our sofa, watching the debate go back and forth like ping pong.

But Dad will never score his point because Mum cheats. She steals the ball.

‘I’ll put supper on the table,’ says Mum. ‘And when you’ve quite finished taking your temper out on me, we can sit down and eat.’

‘Ruth, how did you think this wouldn’t come out?’

Mum whips around. The mask slips, showing fury under perfect makeup. ‘I’vetoldyou, Harold, I donotwant to talk about this. Do you want us screaming at each other, with the neighbours listening through the walls? Iwill notget caught up in your ugliness.’

Mum rarely gets visibly angry. After all, it’s not ladylike. But we all know that underneath the façade, she’s white-hot with fury all the time.

‘I won’t let you sidestep this time,’ says Dad. ‘Not when it involves Lizzie.’

Mum plays her winning hand – she starts crying big noisy crocodile tears. These are usually saved for very special occasions, but she’s been using them more and more recently.

Dad gives up then, of course. He can’t stand seeing Mum cry.

This is what my mother does. Absolutely refuses to admit she’s lied. She’s been caught out. I don’t know how she let the lie get to this point – usually she’s clever enough to sidestep before it gets this far. But she’ll never admit she’s made something up. Ever.

How can you have a relationship with someone who point-blank refuses to see reality?

Some extra guests join our meal that evening. They are called awkwardness, rage and denial. They are regular visitors to our house, joining us whenever we’re all together. I’m so used to them that I barely notice the sickly, scared feelings any more. It’s like carrying around a heavy bag I can never take off. After a while, you just get used to it.

I start dividing up the food on my plate, scraping the cream sauce off the meat and pushing it towards the mashed potato. We’re having a fancy meal because Dad is here. When it’s just Mum and me, we eat plain things. Usually bread and butter.

‘Eat properly, Elizabeth,’ Mum snaps.

Suddenly, Dad says, ‘How was your day, Lizzie?’ His face is tight and the words are forced and carefully chosen. He can’t use the word ‘school’. That would allude to Mum’s lie.

Ruth Riley has been telling Dad’s work colleagues that I won a place at the girls’ grammar, when I wasn’t even bright enough to sit the exam. It’s an obvious lie, even for her, but I suppose she thought that since his colleagues were all based in London they’d never find out. I don’t think she thought Dad would find out either.

‘It was okay, Dad,’ I say. ‘We’re rehearsing for the school … I mean, for the play. I’m the Angel Gabriel.’

Dad smiles then, a full, genuine smile. ‘You’re my little angel. You know that, don’t you, Lizzie?’

‘She isn’t special enough to be an angel,’ says my mother, irritated that I’m being praised.

Dad looks at me with sad eyes.

Sometimes, I think he is just as trapped as me. Other times, I know he’s not brave enough to make a stand and I hate him for it.

People think Dad is the nice one, but really he’s worse than Mum. He lets her be the way she is because he’s too scared to rock the boat.

Kate

9.21 p.m.

‘No, Ilikeparties,’ I shout, over the uneven whine of electric guitar. ‘I just don’t like this sort of music.’

‘Give it a chance,’ says Col, swigging from his plastic pintglass. ‘They spent hours setting this lot up.’

It’s true. My ex-housemates, Rebecca and Julie, have excelled themselves this weekend, creating a mini festival in the back garden, complete with plywood stage and thousands of fairy lights.

Friends drink and dance around me. They wear various fancy-dress costumes – a giant banana with star sunglasses, Sid Vicious, Amy Winehouse and, of course, Col, dressed as a woman in floral Laura Ashley and badly applied lipstick.