I pick up the remains of my cold beefburger, dip it in the blob of tomato sauce, put it in my mouth, and chew.

Mum touches his shoulder. ‘Simon. Why don’t you take the stuff upstairs?’

He just stands there, though, arm extended and bobbing.

‘Joanna,’ he says, ‘Joanna, I’d like it if we could get off on the right foot.’ He pauses, flicks his fringe. ‘I’d really like that, Joanna.’ He smiles then, showing his small teeth, and I touch his outstretched fingers, just lightly.

eight: September, 1985

eight

September, 1985

When I get back from school, I don’t go in the kitchen. Mum’s in there, recipe book propped up on the Special Thing Simon’s bought to keep recipe books open (she never had a recipe book before, let alone a Special Thing), wooden spoon in hand, chopping board at the ready, probably weeping over the onions.

‘I’m cooking lasagne,’ she calls. I swing my bag across the living room floor. ‘It’s Italian,’ she continues. ‘Minced beef and big sheets of spaghetti. Nothing you won’t like.’

She always cooks fancy things because she thinks he likes them, then tries to sell them to me with these descriptions. But I’ve seen him slide something greasy off his plate into the bin when she’s turned her back to pour him another glass of white wine. ‘I hope it’s dry, Jan,’ he’ll say. ‘Dry white’s the only wine worth a hangover.’

I sit down on the sofa.

‘Did you hear me?’ she asks.

‘I’m going out tonight. Don’t bother with food.’ I open a copy of the Guardian, because it’s all there is to hand. He brought that into the house. I flick the pages. We never used to have a newspaper. Dad liked to watch ITN; Julia Somerville’s his favourite. ‘I’ll just catch the headlines,’ he’d say. Then it would be flicked over.

Mum walks into the living room and stands behind the sofa. I can picture the shape of her lips exactly: stuck out as if she’s got a satsuma in her mouth. Biting on the pith. Probably one eye half closes as she says, ‘Fine,’ in a voice she’d like to think of as crisp. ‘Simon’s got a treat for you tonight though.’ She lets this one out as she walks back into the kitchen. But I don’t move from my spot on the sofa.

‘I think you’ll like it,’ she calls over a clattering of pans. She’s got these massive pans now. They went into Oxford and bought them together. When they came back they were cradling and rocking their Habitat bags as if they were newborns.

I don’t reply.

‘I think you’ll like it, Joanna.’ She comes into the living room and sits on my newspaper.

‘I’m trying to read.’