There’s a clunk as the rivets of the skirt hit the floor.

I flick a look at Shane, who seems focused on my knees. He breathes slowly, deliberately, taking a breath in, letting it go.

I cough out a giggle. Shane doesn’t move.

Fixing my eyes back on the curtain, I grab the side-strings of my knickers and pull them to my knees. I never wear the wrong knickers to Shane’s. I always choose the small black pair with the lace trim. I have to bend down a bit to get them off my feet.

The warm air licks around me. Every bit of me suddenly has a pulse. I slip my hands into the curve above my hips, run my tongue along my top lip, taste chocolate, and wait.

But he makes no sound, no movement, no nothing.

I look at him. His eyes seem to be closed. But then I realise he’s looking down at my toes. I’m standing here with just a T-shirt brushing the tops of my hips and he’s sitting, staring at my toes. Taking in each red painted toenail.

So I turn round, slowly, like I did in the pink pencil skirt. But this time he can take in each bit of leg, thigh, arse. I pause and concentrate. Perhaps I’ll feel his breath on my skin. Perhaps it will be wet. Perhaps he’ll put a big hand on me. Perhaps he’ll move for me, reach out and pull me over, pull me to him.

But when I’ve turned all the way round, his hands are clasped on his knees, and they’re white and dead looking. His curls fall over his eyes as his head drops lower.

I pick up my knickers, pull up my skirt. Shane doesn’t move from his chair.

‘I’m not your girlfriend,’ I say. And I open the shed door.

seven

September, 1985

He stays over a couple of times before he moves in. I never hear them at it because I go right down under the covers, put my fingers in my ears and breathe through my mouth so all I get is the air moving in my head like a big sea. The door goes, their laughter creeps up the stairs, and I go under.

His name’s Simon. In the morning, he’s there at our breakfast table, beaming behind his packet of Alpen. Mum goes out and buys that for him because he says he can’t eat bacon and eggs. ‘Pinch an inch!’ he says, digging a tiny roll of flesh out of his waistband. ‘Roughage. That’s what you need in the morning, Jan.’ She nods as if she knows what he means.

I’ve done something about this in Home Economics, so I speak up. ‘Fibre, that’s what they call it now.’

He lets go of his bit of stomach. ‘Is it now? Same difference, though. New word, same difference. Like spastic and person with cerebral palsy. See?’ He winks at Mum. ‘She’s a feisty one, Jan!’ He puts one hand on my arm and leans towards me. ‘Don’t let anyone change that, Joanna. Good for you.’ He looks at Mum. ‘Good for you.’