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The facinating story of a woman who grew up in a brothel. Part 1 - As I was growing up, my mother worked as a housekeeper in a bohemian part of London full of hookers and artists.

My family — my brother, sister, mother and often absent father — lived in a leaking basement flat of a large Victorian house, which had rooms that my mother would clean and deliver breakfast to. When I was 10, three prostitutes moved in. My mother kept their profession a secret from us, but I noticed they were very different from her — they were covered in make-up, wore low-cut tops and would sit very provocatively on the doorstep with their legs open; if she saw us on the doorstep, she would scream at us.

In our teens, we gradually worked it out, after noticing how they’d sleep in the day, then go out at night and return with men. There was only one telephone, so my mum would always rush to answer it, to prevent us doing so, but my sister and I became inquisitive and started picking up the phone. If we said the girls weren’t in, the callers would ask us if we were on the game. We’d make up names for ourselves, such as Letitia, from EastEnders, and say, “We’ll give you the full works,” a term we’d overheard. We’d arrange appointments, and men would come round. My mother would answer the door and quickly slam it. A couple of times, men wanted us to go into detail: “What colour are your knickers?” That was too much, it scared us and we’d hang up.

The men didn’t frighten us, but my mother was very protective. The girls had a pimp, and I always felt he would intervene. He was very controlling, and at night he would keep vigil in the bathroom. One woman was a heroin addict, which shocked me. I never saw her shoot up, but she physically deteriorated in front of us. We became friendly, though I never spoke about it with my mother. When I was 14, one prostitute’s brother arrived to get over heroin — he died two weeks later of an overdose. I remember the girl coming screaming to my mother. And there were terrifying police raids in the night that woke us up with loud banging on the door. My mother would soothe us with hot milk and a biscuit. Her policy was never to tell us what was really going on — she covered up the police raids as if they were a treat. She never showed her emotions — I guess she buried most of the pain — but had the meanest temper, so we didn’t dare ask her anything.

I never felt safe at home, but I couldn’t talk to my mother, and wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone else. My mother wanted us to pretend it wasn’t happening — respectability was the most important thing to her. She comes from a very proud Spanish family, and was deeply ashamed of her life and didn’t want her relations to know. The shame was infectious. I took on the habit of lying from a young age, and began a double life. To friends, I invented a happy alternative, that we were middle class, that we owned our home, that I had a normal family. I put on a posh accent and remember people calling me a snob. Lying was my tool for survival. The lies made the emotion easier to manage, and I became very numb to the events. I buried a lot as well — I don’t remember half my childhood, but I have diaries from my teens. I was clearly depressed and very insecure. My diaries were the only outlet.

Part 2 next week.