I could see why a boy would choose her as a girlfriend. She had lots of shiny blonde hair that fell like a scarf around her shoulders, smooth cheeks, a pink little mouth, ready to open, and eyelashes painted with blue. Her curves were a bit like Kathryn’s used to be, only more so.

‘Is that it?’ Her earrings winked at me as she spoke.

‘And a box of matches. Please.’

She turned and reached for the matches. Her skirt lifted a little and she seemed to pause for a moment. I looked away.

Her bangles clattered as she slammed the matches on the counter. ‘One ninety.’ She held out her hand and looked directly at me, and I was struck by how grown-up she seemed. She was like a woman in a painting, standing there in relief against all those multi-coloured cigarette packets, a patchwork of government health warnings and gold seals behind her.

I cleared my throat. ‘You know my son, I think.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Robert. Robert Hall.’ I tried to smile.

She didn’t smile back. Her mouth was open, rimmed with lipstick, waiting. ‘Anything else?’

What had I come here for? Whatever plan I had, it seemed ridiculous now.

‘No. Thanks.’ I put the money in her palm and turned to leave.

‘Rob’s nice.’

I stopped.

‘Rob’s a really nice boy,’ she said.

I turned round. She gave me a quick smile, and as she did so, the lipstick on her bottom lip cracked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He is.’

She tossed her bright hair over one shoulder. ‘Don’t think he likes me much, though.’

I approached the counter again. ‘What makes you say that?’

She laughed. Then she half-closed her eyes and said, in a drawn-out voice, ‘I cannot imagine.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You know,’ she said, and shrugged.

‘I don’t think I do.’

She looked up at me with big eyes. She didn’t blink as she curled her lips into a long, slow smile. Her pink jumper was tight on her shoulders and her chest as she leant over the counter, her bare elbows smudging the newsprint beneath. ‘You know,’ she said again.

twelve: Joanna, December, 1985

twelve

Joanna

December, 1985

It’s Saturday and I wake up with a nose full of snot. I lie in bed, blinking at the light. My eyes feel like they’re sweating.

The phone goes. I think about leaving it but know Mum and Simon won’t get up. He makes her breakfast in bed on Saturdays. I usually hear him imitating the noise of a coffee machine, like on that advert. Then she moans that he gets muesli in the sheets.

RING. RING. RING. RING. The phone keeps going and my head feels like it might roll off my body, it’s so heavy when I get up.

‘Joanna?’

Dad. He’s in a phone box. His money’s clanking.