‘Of course, sounds great,’ Beth says with a silent sigh of relief, although not just because she’s now got the chance to tell Saskia about Mark. When she first walked out of her house this morning, she’d expected to feel petrified about being out in the open. But after spending most of the previous night wide awake, listening to Simon’s heavy breathing and wondering if she’d remembered to lock all the windows, being outside had the opposite effect. Being bathed in bright winter sunshine and surrounded by familiar people have put things into perspective; it was just a stupid note, the pathetic actions of a man-child. Sticks and stones.

At least that’s what she’s trying to convince herself.

The two women fall in step as they walk down the hill, then take a right towards the café. Sierra Rose is part quintessential village store and part stylish urban coffee shop, and Beth adds three punnets of raspberries to her flat white order. There’s only one empty table, and it’s right at the back, Beth realises with a rising wave of concern. As they weave past buggies and discarded tote bags, Beth can sense people looking at her, some trying to work out why she’s familiar, others – the ones she’s met at school gatherings or street parties – wondering if there’s a way they can grab her attention. She keeps her eyes resolutely focused on her feet, and is almost through the flock when a hand reaches out and curls around her own.

‘Wow, Beth, I heard what you did. Well, I read about it. That’s amazing. I mean, you’re amazing.’

Beth swallows down a wave of nausea and draws her arm back, very slowly, making sure it doesn’t look like she’s recoiling from the woman’s touch. It takes all her self-control, and Beth feels a heady sense of relief when the woman’s fingers leave her skin.

‘I would never have done that; I mean, I don’t think I could. I would probably have called Giles or something – not walk away of course – but God, stopping the way you did. Amazing.’

‘Thanks,’ Beth murmurs, lifting her eyeline, willing herself to smile enough for the woman to not think she’s rude while desperately trying to remember her name. ‘That’s very sweet of you to say,’ she manages. ‘Listen, I better …’ She nods at the table where Saskia is now sitting, tapping on her phone, no doubt putting a photo of her coffee on Instagram, and tagging Beth in it, without asking for permission.

‘Of course, of course. Enjoy your coffee.’

Beth smiles her goodbye – it’s easier now, the memory of the woman’s touch floating away – and then sinks into a wooden chair opposite Saskia. She stifles a sigh of relief and stirs a packet of brown sugar into her coffee.

‘You don’t take sugar,’ Saskia notes, sipping her espresso.