Finally, the train pulls into Reading station. It’s the last stop so Beth waits until everyone else gets off before pushing out of her seat. As she does, a thought suddenly flashes up – what if Mark followed her here and is on this train? He could do anything to her; no one knows she’s here. She was extra-vigilant at Clapham Junction, scanning the platform as she waited for the train to arrive, but still, she might have missed him. Her eyes whip left and right as she walks away from the platform and towards the concourse.

The station has had an upgrade since she last visited, lots of gleaming glass and shiny stainless steel, plus a curved roof with a nautical feel. As she walks towards the exit, she remembers how different it was when she was growing up here; the snack shop that wasn’t much bigger than a cupboard but still managed to stock every chocolate bar you could think of, and the shabby flower stand with the owner who would try to flog bunches of wilting roses to every man in a suit.

Beth decides not to take a cab to her parents’ house; the walk will give her time to prepare herself. As she veers left out of the station, she tries to conjure up the Beth her parents remember, then layer on a decade-long glamorous career in international finance. God, she feels sick. How on earth is she going to be able to hide who she really is? She finds their rare, short-lived telephone calls difficult enough, so how can she possibly keep up the pretence for hours in their company? Her only hope is that her dad’s illness distracts them from her lies. She knows that’s selfish, but survival often is.

Reading is a growing town, and Beth doesn’t recognise half the buildings, the shiny glass accountancy firms that have sprung up close to the station, and the red-brick blocks of luxury commuter flats. But some things haven’t changed. Forbury Gardens, where she hung out when things became too difficult at home; the crumbling ruins of the old abbey, where she would daydream about her escape. She crosses over the narrow river and gradually the landscape changes. She avoids making eye contact with a group of teenage boys and takes a left onto her parents’ street. It’s a long, deteriorating road and she walks for a good fifteen minutes, almost to the end, until she reaches number 205. She takes a breath and knocks on the white PVC front door.

An old woman with grey shoulder-length hair opens it. She lifts one hand to her chest and drops her head to the side. Tears sprout in her eyes. ‘You came,’ she whispers.

‘Hello, Mum.’ Beth’s voice is croaky and she coughs to clear it.