Justin’s fiddling in his rucksack for his keys, and I stand for a moment on the pavement by the railings that run around what might generously be called our front garden. Weeds poke up through the wet gravel; the only decoration a solar-powered lamp shaped like an old-fashioned lantern, which gives off a dull yellow glow. Melissa’s garden is gravelled, too, but there are no weeds to be seen, and either side of her front door sit two perfectly manicured box trees, shaped into spirals. Beneath the lounge window is a patch of brickwork a shade lighter than the rest; where Neil scrubbed off graffiti left by someone in South London still narrow-minded enough to object to a mixed-race marriage.
No one has bothered to pull the curtains in our own lounge, and I can see Katie painting her nails at the dining table. I used to insist we all sat at the table for meals; used to love the opportunity to catch up on what they’d done at school. In the early days, when we first moved in, it was the one time of day when I felt we were doing all right without Matt. There we were, a little family unit of three, all sitting down to a meal together at six o’clock.
Through the window – coated with the ever-present layer of grime that comes from living on a busy road – I notice that Katie has cleared a space for her nail kit among the magazines, the pile of bills, and washing basket, which has somehow chosen the table as its natural home. Occasionally I clear the mess so we can eat Sunday lunch together, but it isn’t long before a creeping tide of paperwork and abandoned carrier bags pushes us on to our laps again, in front of the telly.
Justin opens the door and I remember what it was like when the kids were little and they’d run to greet me when I came home, as though I’d been away for months, instead of stacking shelves at Tesco for eight hours. When they were older it would be next door I’d call on, thanking Melissa for the after-school care the kids claimed to be too old for, but secretly loved.
‘Hello?’ I call. Simon comes out of the kitchen with a glass of wine. He hands it to me and kisses me on the lips, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me closer. I hand him the plastic bag from Melissa’s café.
‘Get a room, you two.’ Katie comes out of the lounge, her fingers spread out and her hands in the air. ‘What’s for tea?’ Simon releases me and takes the bag into the kitchen.
‘Sausage and chips.’
She wrinkles her nose and I cut her off before she can start moaning about calories. ‘There’s some lettuce in the fridge – you can have yours with salad.’
‘It won’t get rid of your cankles,’ Justin says. Katie hits him on the arm as he ducks around her and runs up the stairs, two at a time.
‘Grow up, you two.’ Katie is nineteen and an easy size eight, with not a hint of the puppy fat she still had a few years ago. And there is nothing wrong with her ankles. I move to give her a hug, then remember her nails and kiss her cheek instead. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I’m knackered. The odd takeaway won’t do you any harm – everything in moderation, right?’
‘How was your day, honey?’ Simon asks. He follows me into the lounge and I sink into the sofa, shutting my eyes for a brief moment and sighing as I feel myself relax.
‘It was okay. Apart from Graham making me do the filing.’
‘That’s not your job,’ Katie says.
‘Neither is cleaning the loo, but guess what he had me doing yesterday?’
‘Ugh. That bloke is such an arsehole.’
‘You shouldn’t put up with it.’ Simon sits next to me. ‘You should complain.’
‘To who? He owns the place.’ Graham Hallow comes from the breed of men who inflate their egos by belittling the people around him. I know this, and so it doesn’t bother me. For the most part.
To change the subject I pick up the London Gazette from where I dumped it on the coffee table. It’s still damp and parts of the print are blurry, but I fold it in half so the chatline and escort ads are showing.
‘Mum! What are you doing looking up escort services?’ Katie says, laughing. She finishes applying a top coat to her nails and carefully screws the lid on, returning to the table to push her hands under an ultraviolet lamp to seal the varnish.
‘Maybe she’s thinking of trading Simon in for a newer model,’ Justin says, walking into the lounge. He’s changed out of the black T-shirt and jeans he was wearing for work, into grey joggers and a sweatshirt. His feet are bare. In one hand he carries his phone; in the other a plate heaped with sausage and chips.
‘That’s not funny,’ Simon says. He takes the paper from me. ‘But seriously, why are you looking at chatlines?’ His brow furrows and I see a shadow cross his face. I glare at Justin. Simon is fourteen years older than me, although sometimes I look in the mirror and think I’m catching him up. There are lines around my eyes I never had in my thirties, and the skin on my neck is beginning to crepe. I’ve never had a problem with the age difference between us, but Simon mentions it often enough for me to know he worries about it. Justin knows that, and takes every opportunity to stick the knife in. Whether he’s getting at Simon or at me, I can never be sure.
‘Don’t you think that looks like me?’ I point to the bottom advert, beneath Angel’s ‘mature’ services. Justin leans over Simon’s shoulder, and Katie removes her hands from the UV lamp so she can get a proper look. For a second we all stare at the advert in silence.
‘No,’ Justin says, just as Katie says, ‘It does a bit.’