The young woman gasps in shock and tries to escape the probing fingers, but there’s nowhere to go. She is pinned on all sides by armpits, knees and hips. A smirk settles on the man’s lips and Fran’s rage erupts. She reaches out, thumb and forefinger extended, and grabs as much of his backside as she can. Then she twists. Hard.

The man jolts, rising up on the toes of his shiny black shoes, then he snaps round and glares accusingly down at her.

‘I believe this is your stop,’ Fran says as the doors open.

The man grimaces. He’s torn between leaving the carriage and responding to Fran. The young woman he groped is no longer in the aisle; she’s moved into the belly of the train. Her eyes meet Fran’s. Other than a woman in a hijab and a couple of teenage boys they are now alone in the carriage with the grey-haired pervert. An urgent beeping fills the space. The doors are about to close.

‘Ugly Bull Dyke!’ the man shouts at Fran. Seconds later, he’s gone.

There’s confusion as Fran moves down the carriage towards the young woman, and the young woman heads towards her.

‘Did you see—’

‘Are you okay?’

‘What happened?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘What did you say to him to—’

‘I’m so sorry—’

There’s an awkward pause as they wait for each other to finish.

‘Stella.’ The younger woman holds out her hand. ‘Whatever you just said or did, thank you.’

There’s a Northern tinge to her accent that Fran can’t quite place. Leeds or Sheffield, maybe.

‘Fran Fitzgerald.’ She returns the handshake. Now the adrenaline’s worn off she is desperate for the toilet again.

‘It’s a hate crime you know,’ Stella says, ‘what he called you.’

Fran tuts. ‘To men like that we’re either sluts or lesbians. Limited vocabulary. Tiny brains that match their tiny penises. And as he didn’t want to ram his hand between my legs that makes me a …’ She pauses as she registers the expression on the other woman’s face. ‘I’m not saying you’re the slut. Not in any way, shape or form. You’re no more a slut than I am a lesbian and’ – she takes a deep breath – ‘I’m sorry. I’m not expressing myself very well. It’s been a long day and—’

‘No, no. I get what you’re saying. He’s the dick.’

‘Good. Because …’ Fran shrugs off the rest of her sentence. Stella doesn’t need to know that she’s been reprimanded several times at work for saying something tactless to another member of staff. She doesn’t mean the words to come out the way they do but she can’t always stop herself. She does try though.

Yes Frances. She hears her mother’s voice in her head. You are very trying.