Rose knows she’s not too fat. She knows her knees don’t bend inwards. But she also knows that when people get close to her, they recoil. She knows that she doesn’t have what all of these people have, what even the mannequins have – that cast-iron grasp of how to hold yourself in relation to others. Nodding heads, holding hands, even something as simple as looking. The only person Rose infallibly knows what to do with is Aaron.

Another window. There are trainers here. Hundreds of them, artfully arranged. She’s been to JD Sports, but she knows this is different because of the clear white space between things. She lets her face sink towards the glass, feels the cool touch on her forehead. She’s wearing running shoes. They’re old. She could get new ones. But she knows these will not be fifty quid.

She walks on. She crosses the road in front of the Tube station. The entrance to it is thronged with people. So busy that she can’t get close. She watches them press through the turnstiles, and thinks of the tunnels inside, the lifts heading down, the passages sighing with warm air.

She walks past.

The street is pedestrian now. People painted silver stand on boxes. She doesn’t know why. The street opens out into a square, with a building in the middle lined with pillars. Tables from cafés spill out, and people circle, drifting. She walks, because when she stands still people bump into her. Round a corner, she finds a low step beneath another row of pillars, and she sits.

The sunlight paints a vivid stripe across the buildings opposite, but where she sits is in shadow. It’s not cold, though. The stone is warm underneath her, and the air is warm. She feels sticky in her jeans.

She takes her phone out.

Hi Rose, Its Dillon, I got your number from aaron hows it going?

She types, slowly.

Its good

A group of people walk past following someone holding up a little yellow flag. A small boy walks in from the other direction, holding on to his mother with one hand and clasping an ice cream in the other. He gazes blankly back at Rose as he licks his dripping cone. Chocolate on his nose, eyes wide, wet and still with the intensity of his pleasure.

Maybe she should buy an ice cream with her money.

But now Rachael is there. ‘Rose!’ she calls, delighted. Her face is bright, her smile gleaming. ‘How are you! What are you doing?’

Rose is determined not to speak. Rachael’s voice drops into a tone of deep concern. Unless she’s just taking the piss. Rose can’t tell. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.