“Bitch,” I yelled as the GTi shot out of the garage, leaving me gagging on her exhaust fumes. I hesitated for a moment, then my anger got the better of me. I raced back to the house, clattered down the hall and jumped behind the wheel of my Nova. I hit the drive at fifty, and reached the gates in time to see Gloria turn right.

By the time I got through the gates, she was out of sight. I put my foot to the floor and screamed down the winding lane, standing on my brakes like a boy racer. I prayed she hadn’t taken one of the narrow lanes that turned off at irregular intervals. I was nearly at the main road when I caught a glimpse of her across the angle of a field. She was heading for Wilmslow.

“Gotcha,” I yelled triumphantly as I shot across the oncoming traffic to make a right turn and get on her tail. I assumed she didn’t know my car, but hung back a little just in case.

She seemed to know where she was going, moving between lanes with no hesitation. Just before she hit the town center, she suddenly swung left without indicating, leaving me to make a hairraising maneuver, cutting up a coach that was really too big to argue with. I found myself in a narrow street of terraced houses. I drove down as fast as I dared, slowing at the junctions to check she hadn’t turned off. I was almost at the end when she headed back down the street, well in excess of the speed limit. I had to swerve to avoid her.

She clearly wasn’t afraid to let me know she’d spotted me. I wrenched the wheel round in a tight turn, hitting the pavement as I went. Another thousand miles off the tires. I screeched back after

I felt like a complete moron when she walked into Sainsbury’s and helped herself to a trolley. I tried to console myself that she’d spotted me and was trying to throw me off the scent again, but by the time she’d reached the breakfast cereals and her trolley was almost full, I had to concede I’d overreacted. I strolled alongside as she grabbed a packet of Weetabix.

“I said I wanted you to answer a few questions,” I remarked casually. She nearly jumped out of her skin, so I added, “Just like Jett invited you to yesterday.”

She was torn between the desire to piss me off in good style, and the sure and certain knowledge that if she did, I’d go straight to Jett, reporting on the merry dance she’d just led me. Her adulation of the boss won. “You’ve got till the check out,” she said, trying to sound tough and almost succeeding.