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.’

She gives him her little smile. Her dressing gown’s unzipped too far, showing the yellow-looking dip between her tits. Usually she does the zip right up, because there’s no heating in the kitchen. And she isn’t wearing her normal slippers, the ones with the cream fur trim. She’s wearing the ones with curved heels and fluffy fronts. Dad bought her those one Christmas. ‘Whenever am I going to wear those, Dan?’ she’d asked him then.

‘Muesli, Jan, it’s the only way forward for the great British breakfast.’

I twist myself free of Simon’s hand. Mum sits down next to him, crosses her legs. Lets a slipper dangle from her foot.

‘Wouldn’t you say, Joanna?’ The glass of his big watch winks at me. His watch is gold coloured. There’s loads of dials on the face, and at least four buttons on the side. I wonder what they all do, how many buttons and hands and dials you need to tell the time, and why he doesn’t have a digital, like everyone else.

That night Mum’s jumpy all through tea, picking at her cardigan, twirling a bit of hair around her finger, getting up to look out the window. She doesn’t even put any food out for herself. She keeps dishing the beefburgers onto my plate, getting up and sliding another from under the grill as soon as I’ve finished one.

She picks at a bit of bread without bothering to spread any marg on it.

‘Joanna.’

I can tell she’s going to say something she thinks is important, because she starts off with my name.