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premier league football player and it was the tattooed name of her firstborn.
    “But think about it hon. I do the nice thing, the honest thing,” I jabbered, giving the word as naïve and foolish an inflection as I could. “Give the bloke two hundred and fifty quid, which is what a signed promo shot of Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel is worth –
    “Neil, you know that’s not –”
    “And then sell it on for two hundred and fifty, what’s been the point of that? I’m trying to make a living here. For us. But if you’d rather I didn’t …” I said, somewhat petulantly.
    It was a strategic manoeuvre. It was only a matter of days before Jane discovered what I’d done. How much I’d screwed up. And I knew that when she did – when the smoke cleared and she was able to pick through the debris of what used to be her life – I was going to be on the wrong end of a very big row. A plate-hurling , parent-phoning, locks-changing, never-want-to-see-you-again scale bust-up. So I was pushing this point as preparation. Ground work. Something I could barter with later. But hon, when I tried to make a little money to put things right you accused me of being unfair. Ow, ow that hurts, I’m sorry I’m sorry ow.
    Something like that.
    Jane was laying quietly. She does this during disagreements. The silent thing. Implying I’m not worth listening to. Which makes me frustrated and shouty and incoherent and not worth listening to.
    “All I meant was,” she said, “you could have been nicer.”
    “So could he!” I spat. Streaky looked up from underneath the radiator. “He trod on Laura’s toe and didn’t apologise, he virtually pulled an entire display down, told me I was a tosser, fuckin’ amateur hour, don’t know what the fuck you’re – ”
    “Who’s Laura?”
    “What?”
    Jane lifted her head from the pillow a little.
    “You said he trod on Laura’s toe. Who’s Laura?”
    The room went quiet. The cat blinked.
    “Oh. Uhmm the woman. The Chanel woman. Yesterday. With the car. Turns out she works nearby. Dropped in to say thank you. Brought me a coffee.”
    I didn’t mention her buns.
    “That was nice of her.”
    “Huh? Yes, yes. I s’pose. C’mere, let me move down a bit.”
    I edged down to the back of Jane’s legs, adjusting my weight and began to smooth the oil into the base of her back. The conversation was over. Topic dropped. Died a natural death. We could leave it be, draw a veil, usher out the mourners without it being considered hurried or disrespectful.
    Which I suppose, with less fear and beer inside me, is what I would have done.
    “Your dad wouldn’t have had a problem with it,” I mumbled.
    “Yours neither,” Jane said back quickly.
    Ooooh ref. Yellow card.
    I stopped. Chin up, I wiped a hand on the towel and picked up my beer.
    “Sorry,” Jane said.
    I sighed, easing myself to my feet.
    “Neil?”
    “S’all right,” I pouted. “Just a bit of cramp,” and I gave my thigh a half-hearted rub.
    “I didn’t mean –”
    “It’s fine,” I said.
    “Did you post your letter to him?” Jane said tentatively. She leant up a little, propping herself on an elbow. She was making peace. “You were going to send him those photos of Lana too. Neil?”
    “Hn? No, no not yet.” I sighed and sloshed back another mouthful of beer, fizzing about my gums, making my head swim. “I will. But …”
    “What? What is it?”
    “You have to admit it. Your dad would have slapped me on the back and bought me a drink. Shrewd, young man, shrewwwwwd, ” I said in my best Edward voice. It’s an easy one to do. You basically imagine Windsor Davies playing Shere Khan in a touring rep version of The Jungle Book.
    “Dad never said you should –”
    “He’s told me I’m too nice to be a businessman. That I don’t have the killer instinct. Never tires of asking me how the shop’s going. Made that first million yet young man ? You know he’d have preferred you to have got hitched to some