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twenty-seven when Joe was born in 1964. He had been married for a year to Ava, whose dark good looks always reminded people of Ava Gardner, after whom she was named. Eric had fallen in love with Ava after she repeatedly turned him down, rejected his advances, told him she was not interested.
    She knew of his reputation, had seen him around town in his E-type Jag, always with a glamorous blonde in a headscarf and large black sunglasses at his side. Ava had known he would be a heartbreaker, that he had indeed broken the hearts of many of the girls she knew.
    But Eric persisted. He was not used to being turned down, and her indifference only fanned the flames of his desire. For a while, just like his son, he thought he could be the perfect husband, thought that one woman would be enough.
    For a while he thought he could look and not touch, appreciate the myriad of beautiful women around him, admire the miniskirts brushing their thighs, the sleek bobs brushing against sharp cheekbones, but once Ava’s pregnancy started to show, Eric found himself longing for the unfamiliar touch, the thrill of a new body, a new taste, a new smell.
    He fought it as long as he could, but one brief dalliance before Joe was born became several during Joe’s first year, eventually becoming one permanent mistress, who was subject to change, plus a couple of one-night stands, should he be lucky enough to find them, the free love of the seventies taking rather longer to hit Guildford.
    It didn’t, however, take Eric long to realize that Joe was the perfect foil. ‘I’m just taking him out for a walk,’ he would tell Ava, who would gratefully retire to her room for a break from the exhausting demands of motherhood. Bundling Joe up, Eric would put him in the buggy and walk him down the road to Betty’s house, where Joe would gurgle happily on the floor of the living-room while Eric helped ‘Auntie Betty’ in the other room.
    After Auntie Betty there was Auntie Sandra. Then Auntie Sally, followed by Auntie Terry, Auntie Pat and Auntie Barbara. Auntie Pat was Joe’s favourite. She’d scoop him up into a big hug saying, ‘Whaddyaknowjoe?’, had a colour television set, and let him eat sherbet fizzes and drink pop while he watched Captain Scarlet .
    All the Aunties made a fuss of Joe, but by the time Auntie Barbara came along, Joe was refusing to cooperate. He didn’t need any more Aunties, he had decided, and there was no point being nice to them because they never seemed to stick around for long anyway.
    ‘I don’t want to go and see Auntie Barbara,’ he’d said. ‘Why can’t we go and see Auntie Pat?’ But of course he’d never say this in front of his mum, because Eric had already told him that he worked for the Aunties on the quiet, and that Mum wouldn’t be very happy about it, and he was only doing it to make a bit of extra money to buy nice things for Mum, so Joe mustn’t say anything.
    Joe knew, even at five years old, that there was more to it than that. He knew that his father was somehow guilty, and hated the fact that he would buy him a treat on the way home, to buy his silence. He hated that moment when they would both walk in the door, and his mother would give him a big kiss and ask whether he’d had a lovely time at the park, or the museum. He’d shrug and stay silent, and would go up to his room as quickly as possible to avoid any more questions.
    ‘Good boy, Joe,’ Eric would whisper as he ruffled his hair. ‘Who’s Daddy’s best boy?’
    ‘I am,’ Joe would mumble, unable to look his father in the eye.
    The best times were when his father was away. Then it would just be Joe and his mum, and he could look after her and make her laugh, and make sure that she didn’t have to worry about anything. And best of all, he didn’t have to lie, although his father said it wasn’t lying, it just wasn’t telling the whole truth and that was something entirely different.
    His parents were married for thirty-one years,