I See You(7)

The uneasy feeling I’ve had since I first saw the advert starts to 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 arrives.

Instinctively I squeeze Simon’s shoulder, even though he shows no sign of being bothered by the advert.

‘Mum, it looks nothing like you. It’s some old bird with bad roots,’ Justin says.

There’s a compliment in there somewhere, I think.

‘Jus is right, Mum.’ Katie looks at the advert again. ‘It does look like you, but lots of people look like someone else. There’s a girl at work who’s the spitting image of Adele.’

‘I guess so.’ I take one last look at the advert. The woman in the photograph isn’t looking directly at the camera, and the resolution on the image is so poor I’m surprised it’s being used as an advert at all. I hand it to Katie. ‘Stick it in the recycling for me, love, when you go and dish up for the rest of us.’

‘My nails!’ she cries.

‘My feet,’ I counter.

‘I’ll do it,’ Justin says. He dumps his own plate on the coffee table and stands up. Simon and I exchange surprised glances and Justin rolls his eyes. ‘What? You’d think I never helped out around here.’

Simon gives a short laugh. ‘And your point is?’

‘Oh f*ck off, Simon. Get your own tea, then.’

‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ I snap. ‘God, it’s hard to know who’s the child and who’s the parent, sometimes.’

‘But that’s my point, he’s not the …’ Justin starts, but stops when he sees the look on my face. We eat on our laps, watching TV and bickering about the remote, and I catch Simon’s eye. He winks at me: a private moment amid the chaos of life with two grown-up kids.

When the plates are empty of all but a sheen of grease, Katie puts on her coat.

‘You’re not going out now?’ I say. ‘It’s gone nine o’clock.’

She looks at me witheringly. ‘It’s Friday night, Mum.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Town.’ She sees my face. ‘I’ll share a cab with Sophia. It’s no different from coming home after a late shift at work.’

I want to say that it is. That the black skirt and white top Katie wears for waitressing is far less provocative than the skin-tight dress she is currently sporting. That wearing her hair scraped into a ponytail makes her look fresh-faced and innocent, while tonight’s do is tousled and sexy. I want to say that she’s wearing too much make-up; that her heels are too high and her nails too red.

I don’t, of course. Because I was nineteen myself once, and because I’ve been a mum long enough to know when to keep my thoughts to myself.

‘Have a good time.’ But I can’t help myself. ‘Be careful. Stay together. Keep your hand over your drink.’

Katie kisses me on the forehead, then turns to Simon. ‘Have a word, will you?’ she says, jerking her head towards me. But she’s smiling, and she gives me a wink before she sashays out of the door. ‘Be good, you two,’ she calls. ‘And if you can’t be good – be careful!’

‘I can’t help it,’ I say, when she’s gone. ‘I worry about her.’

‘I know you do, but she’s got her head screwed on, that one.’ Simon squeezes my knee. ‘Takes after her mother.’ He looks at Justin, who is sprawled on the sofa, his phone inches from his face. ‘Are you not going out?’

‘Skint,’ Justin says, without taking his eyes off the tiny screen in front of him. I see the blue and white boxes of a conversation too small to read from where I’m sitting. A strip of red boxer shorts separates his joggers from his sweatshirt, the hood pulled up despite being indoors.

‘Doesn’t Melissa pay you on Fridays?’

‘She said she’ll drop it round over the weekend.’

Justin’s been working in the café since the start of the summer, when I had almost given up hope of him getting another job. He had a couple of interviews – one for a record store, and another at Boots – but the second they found out he had a police record for shoplifting, that was it.

‘You can understand it,’ Simon had said. ‘No employer wants to risk taking on someone who might have their hand in the till.’

‘He was fourteen!’ I couldn’t help but be defensive. ‘His parents had just divorced and he’d moved schools. He’s hardly a career criminal.’