The sun streams in through the window and I have to cover my eyes. Somebody rings the bell before I get a chance to. I reach down to gather my bags. I’ll tell Ewan it was all fine. Then I’ll sleep. I’ll go back tomorrow. One day at a time. I’ll finish my training at the very least.

11:05 am

if its not too much to ask I’d like to          I just want to         say there’s

something

cooking. I just want to get clean.

Mum scrubs my fingernails. There’s no use complaining. She shows me lots of things. How to roll the pastry outwards. How to find the right –

people          always blathering about. No gumption. Not an ounce between them.

Move this, go here, don’t open that door.

The kind of people who make gravy from a packet, and don’t strain it properly.

They don’t even ask my advice.

Close your eyes and they think you’re asleep and they leave you be.

Too many voices.

She said lipstick is for them who want to advertise. The light of God needs no        assistance.

But these buttons are coming loose and I haven’t got a needle. The devil is in the details. The devil is in

these buttons. Coming loose.

Some of these people in here, they’ve got nothing going on up top. These women. If I had a pin                 I know                  where                       I know what

I want

5 September 1983

Karen

Claire isn’t standing by the kiosk like she said. She promised she’d come straight from work so I wouldn’t have to walk through the underpass alone. I can’t see her anywhere so I buy a packet of chewing gum and sit on the long bench opposite the bus stands, keeping my legs crossed tight. Goose pimples. The wind is cold, blowing through the gaps in the sliding doors. Little spots of rain catching on the glass. All the separate sections, the big white numbers, the people waiting in their dowdy clothes, weighed down with shopping bags, ready to go home for a chippy tea. I get my compact out and check my teeth for lipstick smudges. The colour seems brighter than it did at home. I try to blot it on the back of my hand. The woman at the counter was adamant it was the right shade for my skin tone. Smile into the mirror and think of Dad’s face when he bumped into me in the hallway.

‘Bloody hell, Karen, what’s the occasion?’

‘Nothing special.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t forgotten the rest of that dress?’

‘It’s fashion, Dad.’

I pushed past him into the kitchen. Mum was standing at the sink, her hands covered in bubbles. She looked like a bloody Fairy Liquid advert.

‘Can I borrow the spare key, I’ve lost mine.’