I flush and leave and my toasty is ready, along with a pot of tea that I ordered. I pass a ten-pound note to Frances with shaking hands and take a seat near the door. I sip my tea and nibble the edge of the toasty. I don’t even fucking like cheese and bacon. I watch as the crickets climb all over the lovely cakes and wait for someone to notice. I even manage to get a photo, which I upload to Monica’s Facebook page header.

Eventually, two women come into the shop and make a show of putting their bags down at a free table.

The older one orders the ‘special’ – tea and cake for £3.99 – and my stomach flutters. Frances fills up a teapot and almost in slow motion asks her which cake she would like and – boom – it’s all happening now. Frances drops the teapot and the woman screams. I move closer as I head for the door and it’s grotesque. The cakes are alive with insects.

I stand gripped by the sight but Frances is trying to flick them off with a tea towel and they splatter against the glass. I make it look like I’m going to help her, but at the last moment, in all the confusion, I take her bag from under the counter. I’ve seen enough. I’m carried outside on a wave of fleeing pensioners. Someone is dialling the environmental health and my work here is done.

I stand on the cobbles outside the shop and momentarily feel elated. Until I turn around. With the shop empty I can see Frances leaning over the counter, rubbing her face. I step a little closer and peer through the slightly open door. She’s crying. Noisy, guttural sobs. Oh my God. What have I done? This isn’t what I wanted. I thought she would be angry, full of revenge herself. But she’s just very upset.

I want to rush in and hug her and apologise, but I remember that she held Charlie and laughed into the camera and I manage to hurry away, trembling and close to tears myself. I wait to calm myself until I’m far away from the shop. My heart is thudding in my chest and I’m shaking. I feel like I shouldn’t have done this. But she deserves it. Doesn’t she? As I cross the main road I pull the scarf over my face and hurry to the car. Even if there are cameras around here, which I seriously doubt, no one would recognise me or the car.

I head for the hills. I drive and drive and try to imagine how annoyed Frances will be, losing customers like that and having to fumigate her shop. But all I can imagine is her crying.