Radio One plays softly. Shane’s sitting at the kitchen table. He sees me come in and he cracks an egg on the side of a glass bowl.

‘Shane! You’ve got a visitor, love!’

She gives me a little shove forward. ‘Don’t be shy! You can help us bake. We need all the help we can get, don’t we Shane?’

There’s a smudge of flour on Shane’s forehead. He’s holding his hands above the glass bowl, half an eggshell in each fist. A patch of red spreads up his throat.

‘It’s Joanna, Shane.’

A glaze comes over his eyes. He looks down into the bowl.

‘Dan Denton’s girl.’

Shane crunches the eggshells in his hands. Flakes fall and scatter over the table. Smiling up at me, his mum prizes the remaining shell from his fingers. ‘Sit down, love. You can grease the tins.’

Simon Bates announces ‘Our Tune’.

I sit opposite Shane and brush a few bits of eggshell from the plastic-coated tablecloth.

‘Hi,’ I say.

He puts his hands beneath the table.

‘Get it in all the corners,’ says Shane’s mum, plonking two cake tins and a piece of butter paper in front of me. ‘Don’t stint on the grease.’

I smear the butter on. Black flecks of toast stick all round the tins.

Shane’s mum stands behind him and strokes his hair. ‘Ooh!’ she says. “Hey Jude”.’ She reaches over, turns the radio up. Then she sings over Shane’s head.

‘The lah-lah you need is on your – lah-lah. Nah nah nah nah nah – I love “Our Tune”, don’t you, Joanna? So moving. I love anything like that. Real life stories.’ She sighs. ‘Me and Shane have got a few of our own, haven’t we, love?’ She kisses Shane’s curly hair.

‘You done with those? Right. What’s next. Oh yes. The eggs. Do you want to whip the eggs up, Shane, love? Or shall I do it?’

She leans over him and whips the eggs with a fork.

‘Baby Jane’ comes on.

‘Poor Rod. Not as good as he used to be.’ She swishes the volume down and continues to whip. Her mound of hair is completely still. But her tits shake inside her green blouse.

‘Tell Shane about school, Joanna.’

‘Not much to tell.’

‘There must be something.’ A drip of egg splashes over the side of the bowl. ‘Shane never tells me anything. Sometimes I wonder if he ever goes to that school. He’s in the same year as you, isn’t that right?’

‘He’s a year above,’ I say. ‘I’m a fourth year.’

‘You look older than that.’ She stops whipping and looks up. ‘But then, you’re like your mother, I expect.’

She begins to add the eggs to her bowl.

‘The secret is to do it slowly, then they don’t curdle. Hold out this sieve for me. Now give it a good bang as I put the flour in.’

Shane’s eyes follow my fingers. My rings clank against the side of the metal sieve.

‘I’ve heard Shane’s pretty popular in his class, Joanna. That’s right, isn’t it?’