He pulls me towards him and vibrates to the music, banging his feet on the floor, punching his fists in the air. I gyrate with him, the damp smell of the squat sharpening in my nostrils. They say the sense of smell is the most rapidly adapting sense. That your brain blanks out smells when it is used to them. But my nose hasn’t adapted to the stench in this abandoned flat yet. I distract myself by mimicking Jono’s foot stamping and air punches. When the track finishes we collapse, laughing, onto his soggy mattress. We rip off each other’s clothing. We fuck. Short but not sweet. The usual thing these days. Magnificent orgasm for him. Nothing for me.

Pushing rope-like legs back into his drainpipe trousers, Jono says, ‘I just don’t want that nancy boy getting any ideas, taking my girl to the opera, wining and dining her and impressing her.’

‘Well,’ I reply, sarcastically, ‘he has a lot to compete with.’

‘Sometimes you are such a bitch, Hayley Manville Smith.’

80

Miles

It’s Christmas Day. The turkey is in the oven and your nut loaf, with spinach and cranberry, is gently wafting the scent of garlic and ginger around the house. Our favourite Christmas compilation track blasts cheerily from the Sonos. I’m glad Aiden is away at his villa in Barbados. I wasn’t in the mood to spend the festive season with him this year.

Bubbles in our glasses, we sit in the drawing room, to open the presents Santa Claus left late last night. His reindeer ate the carrots Ben, Harry and I scattered in the garden. We found their remnants half chewed up on the doorstep this morning. The whisky and mince pies the boys left for Santa in the hallway had also been enjoyed.

‘No wonder Santa’s so fat, Daddy,’ Harry said, ‘if he eats and drinks that much at every house.’

Despite his wide girth, Santa managed to squeeze down our chimney and arrange the presents beneath our carefully decorated tree. The tree you and I spent hours fussing over. A real tree of course. We have a real tree every year, and decorate it with unusual silver and gold ornaments, all individually designed.

Mother puts her champagne glass on the mantelpiece. ‘Let’s get the boys’ presents out first.’ She bends beneath the tree and starts to pull them out. Ben rips his first gift open. A magic set from Santa. His eyes light up with excitement.

‘This afternoon I’m going to give you a show,’ he says grinning widely, displaying his gappy teeth.