As I finished singing Don’t Cry For Me Argentina from Evita, I saw Mum in the audience, clapping wildly. I knew how proud she was that at 12, I’d won a scholarship to Sylvia Young, a top London stage school.
My mum Marie and I were a team, made extra-close by tragedy. When I was seven, my brother Dean died of cot death, aged seven months. It broke my parents’ marriage, and Mum and I went to live with my grandparents in Maidstone, Kent. I loved helping Nan, who was Italian, cook meatballs with spaghetti, or her special bread with lemon rind.
But when I was 13, Nan died aged 72. A year on, Mum’s brother passed away, and Granddad lost his fight with Alzheimer’s. ‘It’s just us now,’ Mum…