‘Well, my mother was an average housewife - not that you’d know one if she fell out of a tree and hit you on the head. The average housewife lives in a council place, with three or four kids, no holidays, very rarely enough money, and an old man who spends his time between the dole and the pub. She reaches thirty and looks forty-five, her figure goes after the second child, she becomes loud-mouthed to compete with the neighbours who are all streetwise, and she fights to give her kids that little bit more. She dresses them from catalogues, does a bit of ducking and diving for extra cash, and finally expires at about sixty-odd after living for years in damp accommodation and taking the back of the old man’s hand.

‘She gets the doctor for her kids but never for herself. She dotes on her grandchildren, visits sons in nick or boasts because they’ve got a job. She makes sure her daughters try for better and is deeply saddened when they plump for what she had. Her telly and her drop of sherry are her lifeline. And of course Bingo where she can meet her cronies, have a laugh and slag off the neighbours. That, Donna Brunos, is the average housewife.’

She listened to him in silence.

‘All right then, Alan, so what would her big secret be then?’

He grinned. ‘Her big secret would be the bloke who got away, the one she was young with, the one she should have married instead of the ponce she ended up with. She daydreams over shitty nappies and greasy dinners about the fella who fancied her when she was young, the fella who was well-spoken, quiet, classed by her peers as a bit of a snob. Then she remembers her old man in his Teddy boy suit, his slicked-back hair, and his devil-may-care attitude. She took second-best and she knows it. That, Donna, is her secret.’

She tossed her hair in consternation.

‘Well, forgive me, Alan, but that’s not exactly on a par with Jamesie, is it? We were talking about living a lie, not living with regrets.’

Alan flicked a glance at her.