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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?’ Hisbrow 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.’
    ‘You wear glasses, Mum.’
    ‘Not always,’ I point out. ‘Sometimes I put my contacts in.’ Although I can’t remember the last time I did. Wearing glasses has never bothered me, and I quite like my current pair, with their thick black frames that make me look far more studious than I ever was at school.
    ‘Maybe it’s someone playing a joke,’ Simon says. ‘Find the one dot com – do you think someone’s signed you up to a dating agency as a joke?’
    ‘Who would do something like that?’ I look at the kids, wondering if I’ll catch a glance passing between them, but Katie looks as confused as I am, and Justin has gone back to his chips.
    ‘Have you called the number?’ Simon says.
    ‘At £1.50 a minute? You must be joking.’
    ‘Is it you?’ Katie says. Her eyes are mischievous. ‘You know, for a bit of pocket money? Go on, Mum, you can tell us.’
    The uneasy feeling I’ve had since I first saw the advert startsto subside, and I laugh. ‘I’m not sure who would pay £1.50 a minute for me, love. It really does look like me, though, doesn’t it? It gave me quite a start.’
    Simon fishes his mobile out of his pocket and shrugs. ‘It’ll be someone doing something for your birthday, I bet.’ He puts his phone on speaker and taps in the number. It feels ridiculous: all of us crowded round the
London Gazette
, calling a sex line. ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised.’
    I realise I’ve been holding my breath.
    ‘That’s that, then,’ Simon says, handing me the newspaper.
    ‘But what’s my photo doing there?’ I say. My birthday isn’t for ages, and I can’t think who would find it funny to sign me up for dating services. It crosses my mind that it’s someone who doesn’t like Simon; someone wanting to cause problems between us. Matt? I dismiss the thought as quickly as it