Fuck you, Titch, she thinks.

She catches herself. Then she smiles, her mouth open with exertion.

Fuck you, Titch, she thinks again.

The adrenaline pumps through her. She’s running fast, a little too fast for herself, but she can do it.

She is not a phoney. She does things right. She will speak to Rose on Monday.

She’s higher now, and the sun streams across the moors in sudden space. Her breath is ragged from the climb, but each gasp feels full and strong and flecked with curses.

Fuck you, Titch.

As she pulls over the lip of the hill and onto the slight downward dip her stride lengthens and loosens and her mouth gapes wider into almost a laugh at herself, a laugh if she wasn’t pulling hard for every breath.

You fucking idiot, Paula, she thinks.

She will talk to Rose on Monday. She will. She will talk to Rose on Monday, and say the things that no one is saying. That this is not real. That these people are not real. That this is glamour, enchantment, rats turned into pageboys and lizards masquerading as photographers.

Fuck you, Titch, she thinks.

In the sky, the sun hangs between banks of cloud. When it drifts behind, the chill of autumn sweeps across the moor, and the sweat prickles icily on Paula’s back. She runs faster.

It’s been a while since she’s been up here at this time of day, at this time of year. There is a heaviness to the land and to the sky, but the wind spreads and shifts between them with the light, cold touch of unbroken miles. Her face hardens in effort, her brows low as she holds herself straight and limber.

She feels strong but the thoughts that pace through on the beats of her heels on the hard mud darken.

She will see Rose on Monday, but what will she say? She speaks to children every day. She tells them what they should do, how they should be to get along, how they should fit the shapes they’re supposed to. But she doesn’t know them.

She thinks of the teachers she had, and the well-meaning things they said. To be a teacher means on some level being the voice of the norm, the voice of conformity. It means advising people to play the odds, to get the results, to behave. Those teachers wanted the best for her, but when they said ‘the best’, what they really meant was the average.

Andy would tell her that she’s not like that, not like the teachers she had, who were old, and blind. That she cares, and thinks about what she does.

But Paula knows better. She knows that imperceptibly she has become old too. And she knows how difficult it is to tell the truth, because the truth is so slippery, and so painful. Most days it’s easier to pretend that following the rules is the best thing for you, and if you do, it will all work out in the end.