Then I think. He’s probably called every Saturday. Probably he’s called every Saturday and I haven’t known because I’ve been at the shop. Probably he’s called every Saturday and no one bothered to tell me.

‘Joanna?’

Or perhaps this is the first time he’s called. He could have called me at Buggery’s. He could have found out the number.

‘Is that you, love?’

I could refuse to speak. I could slam the receiver down like Joan Collins in Dynasty.

‘You’ve a right to be angry. I’m sorry I haven’t called before. I’ve been working nights. It’s been a bit – difficult.’ My just-woken-up breath stinks in the receiver.

‘Are you all right?’

I sniff.

‘Have you got a cold?’

I sniff again.

‘Listen,’ he says. Lowers his voice. ‘Why don’t you come and see me? Would you? I’d really like it if you would.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Darvington. Didn’t your mum tell you? You can get the bus.’

‘Can’t you come and pick me up?’

‘Your mother’s got the car, Joanna.’

‘I’ve got a cold.’

‘Please come,’ the pips start to go. ‘It’s Two Saxton Close.’

The line dies.

I don’t bother calling Buggery to tell him I won’t be in.

I wear the coat Simon bought me. I want Dad to ask me about it, but I’m not sure what I’ll say when he does.

The sky’s blue and the freezing air makes my eyes feel less burny. The pavements shimmer with frost, like shop displays at Christmas.

The heater on the bus blasts my ankles but nothing else feels hot. Everyone who gets on comments on the weather, claps their hands together and breathes into them, stamps their feet, then sits there steaming. By the time we’re halfway to Darvington, the bus smells like wet dog. I get my compact out to re-dust my nose. The powder’s started to crack around my crusty nostrils. My lips are tight. If I stretch the lower one the wrong way it’ll split and bleed. I do it, taste blood, then slick lipstick over the top.

Dad’s flat is on an estate just like ours. There’s a pushchair, an old TV, a pile of wet newspapers and a black bin liner full of empties in the hallway. I climb the concrete stairs and stop outside the door. His number two sticker is peeling off around the edges.

Before I can knock, Dad’s opened up. ‘I thought I heard your shoes,’ he says.

He looks neat. Blond hair brushed to the side. Clean-shaven. Blue Stratos. I bought him that last Christmas. He’s never worn it before.

He holds the door open and I walk in.

‘I wanted to get the place straight, before you came. That’s another reason I didn’t phone before. Not that it matters now.’