I think I knew before I knew. I felt the soft whisper of my highlighter brush smoothing my left cheek,
my eyes gazing back at me in the dressing table mirror. It wasn’t the usual dull monologue about cr epey
skin or dark circles. ‘You can’t control today,’ said a small, definite voice. ‘She’s not a child anymore.’
Nick passed swiftly behind me, an apparition in a well-cut grey suit. I shivered. Then I picked up my
mascara and continued the well-worn internal argument about whether I looked like an ageing film star
or a delusional bag lady when I dressed up.
By comparison, it felt as comforting as a nursery rhyme.