Shh. Here we are. St John’s Wort. She picks up a bulk pack.

As they pass the essential oils she palms a couple of tiny bottles and slips them into her pocket.

Ollie makes a panorama of the store, taking in but avoiding looking at the fish-eye mirrors and swivelling cameras. Hey look, red quinoa, he says, picking up a cellophane package and showing her, then elaborately replacing it on the shelf.

It’s a bit expensive, she says. Although it is meant to be good for you. She picks it up and reads the label. Lots of vitamins. I don’t want to carry too much now though. Think I’ll stick with the St John’s Wort.

Oh and I’ll have this please, she says, picking up a Psychologies magazine by the till.

She pays for the goods in her hands and they go out and cross the road.

There’s our bus, says Ria, and they run and jump on.

*

They are buzzed in before they have a chance to press the buzzer. The door closes behind them and they climb the stairs.

A pretty, dark-haired girl behind the needle-hatch serves them: she seems to know Ria. Half Italian or Turkish maybe. She clocks Ollie – large, lined eyes – gives him an in-your-dreams-mate look. Yes, well. The canteen-lounge, with its doss-house vibe, looks just the same: huge, battered sofas and bright kitchen, tea urn on the counter, its fuse boosted with aluminium foil (they like to live dangerously here). There is a quantity of smashed crockery in the open bin and fragments in the dustpan. It’s quiet – too early for most. Someone – a member of the back-room staff, in smart trousers, shirt and sweater, smart glasses – is having a fag on the fire escape at the far end, letting the cool air in. She glances over as she sees them come into the big room, finishes quickly, shuts the fire door and walks back through to the office. A nice man behind the canteen counter makes them a cup of tea – ah yes, the plastic spoons.

No sugar please, says Ollie quickly, and the man looks up, surprised. Like he wants to look Ollie up and down, but stops himself.

Two for me please, says Ria.

The man puts on latex gloves and mops down the counters with disinfectant, and gives their coffee table a wipe with the same solution. It leaves a hospital smell. The table is scarred with old cigarette burns.

Would you like some biscuits, he says, and brings them over, four Rich Tea on an institutional dish. You’re doing well Ria, he says as he sets them down.