In the corner shop I say Hi to the man behind the counter and then I examine the two fridges. I buy three lemons – all he has left – even though one is mottled with something unfortunate. I take a can of diet cola and a can of diet cherry cola because one thing – lemons – feels like too little to purchase. I don’t want him thinking I’m using his shop in a trivial manner, because that sort of treatment can be demoralising, I know. I look at the cheeses. I pick up a packet of feta. I make an approving noise so that he knows that I like his feta. It’s a small sound, somewhere between the word ‘Nice’ and just a ‘Huh’ – something like a high-pitched ‘Nah’. I put the feta back – carefully, respectfully – because even though I am not going to buy it, I am not being dismissive of this feta. I want him to feel that. I look at a few other things, handle them, and make similar sounds of approval. Eeaorw. Aoooirw. Mmmmooooer. I want him to know that I like everything he has in here. He has pleased me with his choices at the warehouse, or the wholesaler, or wherever he selects his goods. He has done A Good Job. He is A Good Shopkeeper. As I pay I say, ‘You have a wonderful shop.’ I take my change and it jangles, just like me. Why do I want to look more nervous than I am, too? So he’ll like me? Feel less threatened? I have got myself into a mindset where it’s almost as though a display of nerves is a social compliment; not to show them is an insult. To be confident shows a lack of respect, somehow.

This whole thing is getting quite difficult to live with.

BACK AT HOME

my mother greets me in the hall.

‘Jenny, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. Here are your lemons that almost killed me.’ I hand her the bag. ‘I hope they taste as good as near-death. One of them is rather shop-soiled.’

‘Aren’t we all, darling?’

She takes them. ‘Are you really all right?’

‘Yes! Godssake.’

‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘I have some freelance work to do and I’ll probably just watch TV. Something soothing like a nature documentary.’

‘Soothing? They send you berserk.’

‘Maybe going berserk is how I relax.’

She takes a lemon out of the bag and inspects it. ‘How are you feeling about Art’s exhibition? Do you want to go?’

‘No. Yes. Maybe. I mean, of course I do.’

Curiosity will get the better of me otherwise, I know it. How can I not meet her? In the flesh. The least fleshly of all beings. The wraith who has stolen my life.