Beth looks at Saskia’s wounded expression and imagines the child she must have been. Loved, idolised, always put first. Encouraged to think she’s standing up for the little people when she’s really just using their bad luck to boost her own self-esteem. She has no idea what a real wound feels like. ‘And now you’ve got a top-post badge,’ she counters, knowing she sounds petulant, ‘and I’ve got a stalker.’

‘That is not fair!’ Saskia retaliates, her preference for low volume forgotten now. Then she narrows her eyes. ‘Wait, a stalker? This guy Mark is stalking you?’

‘I suppose you want to put his picture on MyNeighbour too now?’ This is all so stupid; she should be backing down, apologising, blaming her outburst on stress or lack of sleep. Not making things worse. But she’s developed a crack in her perfect persona, and she hasn’t got the energy to fix it.

‘Well, why not? Why are you so against it? You think the police will do a better job of protecting you? With all their problems?’

‘I don’t want people knowing my business.’

‘Why the hell not? What have you got to hide?’

Beth freezes. What’s happening to her? Why can’t she smile warmly at Saskia and shrug off her question with a quip about a handsome tennis coach or Botox injections? Of course she’s got plenty to hide, a whole past life, but that’s nothing new. She mustn’t let one impulsive decision to do the right thing harm what she’s built. She picks up her phone, uses Simon’s trick to give herself more time, then slips it into her coat pocket. ‘I should go.’

‘Now? No. You need my help, Beth. Pride’s not going to keep you safe. Tell me about Mark, what to look out for.’

‘I’ll be fine. I told you, it’s nothing.’ Beth can’t meet Saskia’s gaze as she pushes the chair away and pulls her coat on.

‘Beth, you can’t do that! Tell me you’ve got a stalker, and then shut down. It’s not fair; what am I supposed to think?’

Suddenly Beth can’t stand Saskia’s whining. She doesn’t respond, just twists to go and zigzags quickly through the busy café, moving too fast for even the keenest yummy mummy to catch her eye. When she makes it out onto the street, she gulps at the air, but doesn’t slow her pace. It’s only a five-minute walk home, and when she reaches her house, her heart is still racing so much that she struggles to line her key up with the slim hole. Images start crowding her mind: Saskia’s beady eyes drilling into her, then Mark running at her with a knife, smearing his note across her face, screaming ‘BITCH!’ at her, spittle flying out of his mouth. Into hers.

‘Can I help you with that?’