No one was offering the old woman their seat; they frowned at the space in front of her, pretending not to see that she was struggling. Two further bodies could fit in there, three at a squeeze; certainly, we were all willing to squeeze in. The woman kept leaning against her trolley and it kept rolling away from her: off she went with it and when I thought she would hit the ground she’d pull it back and lean on it again. Swaying back and forth as if travelling on water. A man in a grey suit stood with his back to her and did a little skip every time the trolley hit his heels. The woman stared at me through the glass with her watery eyes. She pulled up her trolley and leant against it. I blew on to the pane to make her disappear.

‘People don’t like being around old people in London,’ I say to my mother. My mother frowns. ‘I guess that’s good because it’s how I make a living.’

‘Ruth,’ my mother says.

The chicken skin hangs loose from the carcass like an unbuttoned shirt. We lay each half of the breast on to one half of the napkins in front of us, then fold the other half over to rub off the grease.

‘I got off at Oxford Circus. It was so busy that I just couldn’t bear changing trains again,’ I say. It occurred to me that it was the station that Neil used (although he wouldn’t be in work – would he? He wasn’t even in London), perhaps that was why I wanted to get off there. As the train pulled into the station and I heard the announcement, I began to feel quite queasy. Still, I pushed my way out, elbows first through the crowd, weaselling in silence towards the mouth of the station. The descending crowd pushed down on me as I made my way up; halfway up the stairs I began to hear drums: some kind of demonstration outside. Someone repeatedly striking a bell. The noise irritated me; I gritted my teeth. It sounded like hail, or broken glass. I waded upstairs, my hand on the blue metal rail, white at the knuckles, identical ads ascending: CHUNKIER! CHUNKIER! CHUNKIER! McDonald’s new CHUNKY dessert.