'I won't. I'm eating. The scans say it's fine. I have a meal plan,' I say, and I can hear my voice, high and defensive.
'And what about afterwards? You're going to raise a baby on your own in that grotty flat? You're nothing but a child yourself!'
I think about saying the grotty flat wasn't entirely my choice, seeing as she refused to have me home six months ago, owing to my Corrupting Influence on Tammy – sorry, Tamara – and all that. And that me being a 'child' never stopped her kicking me out. But I don't want a fight.
'I don't know. I thought … I'd get it adopted,' I say. She starts to say something but I cut over her. 'I can eat for it … I am eating for it. It will be fine.'
This seems to enrage her so much, she's lost the power of speech.
I sense that now may be the time to make my escape. I go to stand, but before I can, she jumps up herself and begins tearing through a cupboard. A moment later she slaps down a bar of chocolate on the table. I almost slam my chair back, like it's a giant tarantula, but aware of Mum watching me, I keep still.
'You're eating, are you? For the baby,' she says. 'Well, fine. Show me.'
She rips open the wrapper, breaks off four squares and pushes them towards me. 'Go ahead.'
We both stare. The squares seem to morph into something huge and ugly, taking up way more of the tablecloth than they actually do. I break one off and hold it between finger and thumb. Its texture is smooth, impossible. I bring it to my mouth and look Mum right in the eyes as I push it between my lips.
I don't let myself feel the way it begins to ooze in my mouth. It's in my teeth, under my tongue. I swallow a few times, to get it down, suddenly smacked in the gut with memories of gorging on Christmas chocolate, my stomach bulging, food pushing up past my chest.
I'm breathing hard, heart pounding. Another square is in my hand, but I can't do it. Nia won't let me. She punches through the truce wall, her shrieks like the strongest of winds howling around my head. I drop the chocolate, but it's already started to melt. How long was I holding it for, under Mum's gaze? It's coating my fingers, tacky and brown. I can't get it off.
I run for the bathroom and sluice my hand over and over, then, without meaning to, retch, noisily. Chocolate-streaked spit splats into the sink. I stay in there for a while.
When I emerge, Mum is on the other side of the door. She looks so sad.
'Hedda, please – '
'Don't,' I say.
I go for the front door and Mum's voice follows me out on to the street.
'You can't be selfish about this.'
I turn. 'I know that! It's not just my life any more, I get it. OK?'
Mum slumps against the door frame as I leave. 'It was never just your life you were affecting.'
So that went well.
I'm trying to get angry, to tell myself it's useless – of course she wouldn't understand, wouldn't be supportive. What did I expect? But I'm crying as I stumble back up the stairs to my flat. Not even silent tears. I fumble about with the keys but my eyes won't stop streaming, and I keep swiping at them with the back of my hand and making stupid little yelping noises as I try and keep the sobs in. Then I drop the keys and swear and suddenly I'm so tired, more exhausted than I can ever remember feeling – although that can't be true, surely? And the keys seem a million miles away, lying on the floor, the shiny heart keyring Molly gave me face down. There's a big scratch in the back of it that's going in and out of focus. The next thing, a large brown fist closes around them and I wipe my eyes again before looking up into Robin's face.
His look is a little concerned, a lot wary. He reaches across me and pushes the keys into the lock, then opens my door for me.
'Here you go. I suppose it's pointless to ask if you're all right?' he says.
I have no idea why I start laughing, but I do. Well, sob-laughing, the nasty heaving kind. I have to put my hands against the wall, I'm shaking so much.
Robin looks more than wary now – he looks positively alarmed, casting glances up and down the corridor. Eventually, he turns back to me and says, 'Come on.'
He pushes my door open a little more and steers me with a very light touch on the shoulder to the sofa, then pours a glass of water and hands it to me. 'You'd better drink this.'
I take it, spill some on the way to my mouth and wipe my chin with my sleeve.
The laughing has stopped now, thank God, but in its place is a deep mortification.
'Tissues?' he asks.
'Bathroom,' I manage to get out.
He comes back with a bog roll and drops it into my lap.
I give my nose a good blow, then take a few deep breaths and wonder for about the millionth time how in the world I've got myself into this situation.