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said elliptically whenever Nell had had enough of the mess and hit the roof; usually around the same time as the
cardboard boxes.
    The annoying thing was, she was right. Once in every fifty boxes, she’d find a vintage Chanel tweed suit, or an original Mary Quant dress. Those were the clothes that made it to the shop
window, the bait that lured customers in.
    But what really kept them coming back to Born-Again Vintage weren’t those rare classic finds, gorgeous though they were, but the clothes Mum made, the incredible pieces – and they
were
pieces;
the word ‘clothes’ didn’t do them justice – she upcycled from other people’s cast-offs. She was like Molly Ringwald in
Pretty in Pink
when she took two old pink party dresses and combined them to create a new knockout outfit to wear to her high-school prom. Only what Mum did was far more beautiful and extraordinary.
    As Richard pointed out, Mum’s clothes weren’t clothes at all, they were
Art.
With a capital A.
    A long time ago, before Nell was born, Mum had had her own design studio. If it wasn’t for Nell, she’d probably have a wicked fashion label by now, like Stella McCartney or Vivienne
Westwood. Instead, she was turning army greatcoats and worn-out tutus into one-off ball gowns for spoilt fashionistas, and Nell knew damn well she was getting paid a fraction of what they were
worth. If only Mum would just
market
herself properly.
    She ducked round a half-dressed mannequin at the foot of the narrow stairs and took them two at a time up to her tiny room. Anyone else would have turned the recession-led belt-tightening and
sudden fashion for recycling to their advantage; but not Mum. She still saw her stuff as little more than a hobby on the side, when in reality it was the shop’s USP, the only thing keeping
them afloat these days. If Nell hadn’t taken over the books last year and insisted her mother start charging halfway sensible prices, they’d have probably gone broke by now.
    Flinging herself on her narrow bed, she folded her arms behind her head and gazed up at the hand-painted celestial ceiling Mum had done for her when she was a baby. It wasn’t herself she
worried for; she’d be off to uni in three years, striking out on her own. She knew exactly what she wanted to do, too – she’d always known: forensic anthropology. Like in
Bones.
She had a photographic memory, a strong stomach, and had been solving puzzles and riddles since she was old enough to read. She’d never been much good at art or literature,
but she’d wired her first plug at six, and html was as familiar to her as English. Mum couldn’t even work the TV remote control.
    Frowning, she chewed the inside of her cheek. She had to get Mum settled before she left home. Mum had never been what you’d call practical, and she was getting dippier by the year.
She’d never cope without someone to sort out her computer when it crashed or remind her to pay the council tax.
    Mum had met Richard when she was seven, and until then Nell hadn’t realized how much she’d been missing. She loved Richard; she always had. She totally thought of him as her dad, but
even after all these years, Mum still held him at arm’s length, refusing to marry him or even allow him to move into their flat, terrified of pushing Nell out. Nell
wanted
to be
pushed out. How could she live her own life if she was always worrying about Mum?
    This summer’s trip to France, for example, and her own holiday in Cornwall with her best friend Teri and her family. She’d set the whole thing up for one reason and one reason only:
Mum and Richard needed to spend time on their own without her playing gooseberry if they were ever going to get it together. She just wanted to see Mum married so she could relax.
    ‘Nell?’ Mum called up the stairs. ‘Is that you?’
    She swung her feet onto the floor. ‘No. Just a burglar having a nap.’
    A moment later, Mum stuck her head round the bedroom door. She had a