‘I know you don’t read that.’ She lowers her voice. ‘And I don’t bloody blame you.’ She sticks a long finger into my forearm and wiggles it. ‘Women’s Page. Hasn’t even got any make-up on it.’

She smells of perming lotion. She had it done a few days ago. It makes her face look like a tiny dot in a mass of scribble, like something one of the first years would do in Art. Simon didn’t say anything when she showed him, twirling round, patting it with her flattened palm, making a light crunching sound.

‘What’s the treat, then?’ I ask, not looking up.

‘You’ll see,’ she says, wiggling her finger in my forearm again.

When he comes in he’s grinning. He’s wearing a big raincoat. He thinks it’s sexy, this brown mac with a belt. You can tell by the way he never just hangs it on the peg in the hall. Instead he shakes it out with a huge flap, smoothes it over one arm and takes it upstairs to hang it on a wooden coat hanger.

He stands there with his big grin and big rainmac, making a big thing about keeping one arm behind his back.

‘Hi honey, I’m home!’ he shouts, like he always does, in a fake American accent, and she laughs, like she always does, floating into the living room in her Delia Smith pinny. ‘What’s for tea?’ he says. ‘I like a little woman in the kitchen.’ He gives me a wink. ‘And any other room of her choice.’

‘Lasagne tonight, darling.’ She plonks a big kiss on his mouth.

‘My favourite. Apart from you, that is.’

They snog.

‘Joanna!’ he calls, swooping over. ‘I have something which I think may lead you to abandon your sulk, if only for a few moments.’ I can smell his aftershave as he leans over the back of the sofa. It’s one of those expensive ones that still smells cheap. He sticks out his lower lip and breathes over me. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’ve bought for you?’

Mum stands there, arms folded across her pinny.

‘I hope you like it.’ And he brings his arm round in front of him and places a Walkman in my lap.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of including one of my favourite recordings. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.’

‘You are wonderful, Simon,’ says Mum, hugging him. ‘Isn’t he? Isn’t he just wonderful, Joanna?’

But she’s not even looking at me as she asks this question.

part three

part three

one: Howard, September, 1985

one

Howard

September, 1985

Robert and Paul were friends for quite a few years, and, looking back on it, it seems strange that I didn’t take action before I did. By the time they were fifteen, the two of them were wearing the same outfits, singing the same songs, smelling of the same shower gel and deodorant.