Oh, Saffron, what you said was so wrong. I cared very much. What is wrong with companionable silence, peace and laughter? Your relationships are a complex mixture of anger, and anger management. I overheard Miles accusing you of infidelity again. What or whom have you been doing now? Is it Aiden? Ted? Aristos? Or someone I’ve never heard of, let alone met? A toy boy? A sugar daddy? For a stick insect who wears thick horn-rimmed glasses, you do seem to attract a lot of sexual attention.

So, your relationship is hanging on by a thread. How are you going to manage when your firm goes under? Even though I am tired, so tired, I smile inside as I contemplate your ruin. Will you be arrested for fraud? For money laundering? Will you go to prison? Will you have a mental breakdown? You’ve been showing the signs. Even more irascible than usual. Fretting about the smallest thing. Neglecting the children, even though Social Care wouldn’t believe me.

I rub my back. It’s killing me. The pain is so intense, I stumble out of bed and hobble to the bathroom to fetch my painkillers. I’ll ring the doctor tomorrow. Despite all the pills he’s given me, my symptoms are getting worse.

132

Hayley

I’m up early because I couldn’t sleep. Sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee waiting for the sun to come up. You and Saffron have had another argument. Last night, when I returned from my night out with Jono, I heard you shouting as I walked up the stairs. Maybe Caprice is right. Maybe you will soon be looking for a way out with an attentive younger woman.

Drinking coffee, comparing the men in my life.

Jono.

Twenty-eight years old. Smokes like a trooper. Thin as a rake. Always wears his signature outfit, an out-of-date punk look. Purple, orange, pink or green hair, depending on the latest rinse. Skinny black jeans with rips in. T-shirt. Tight black blazer covered in studs and badges. An eclectic range of badges: armed forces, punk bands, heavy metal, poppies, butterflies, CND, Blue Peter. When I asked him how he got his Blue Peter badge, he said he stole it from his brother. Fingers stained with engine oil. His hair, pink at the moment, is scraped back from his face in hedgehog prickles. He has a weird accent. Studs in his ears and in his nose. And somewhere else. But only girls he sleeps with know about that one.

You, Miles Jackson.

Dreamboat. Thirty-nine years old. Voice resonant. Accent educated. You don’t drink too much (usually). Don’t smoke. You smell of musk and sandalwood. You swim and work out regularly. Figure toned. Intellectual job. Good with children.