I did the only thing I could think of. I put my arm up and waved. Neil did the same. I stood, unblinking, with my arm up, as a child stumbled out of the exit, pushing past me, the back of his shiny bob charging through the crowd. Neil opened his arms to embrace the boy and as he swept him up into a hug I saw that the boy was a teenage girl, her short skirt riding up to expose the elasticated hem of her silver polka-dot hot pants, a flash of tanned leg flesh. Neil kissed her neck. Did he? He did. He kissed her neck. A black cab pulled up next to me. The driver yelled, ‘Where can I take ya, love?’ And everything came unstuck.

‘Did you say hello?’ my mother asks, pulling the last thin strip of chicken apart into two perfect halves.

She pairs it with a piece of cabbage, a piece of carrot.

‘Too busy,’ I say. ‘Too many people.’

What I did was I stepped back and shook my head and put my hand away. The cabbie made a face, rolled up the window, drove off. I crossed the road diagonally: the traffic lights counted down, thirteen to zero, PEDESTRIANS CROSS NOW, the beeping, hammering at my temples. My feet moved quicker than the numbers, twice as quick, three times as quick. I dived into a United Colours of Benetton. The humidity struck me and the artificial light made my legs buckle. I pressed myself against the racks of monochrome coats. Two low rows of hangers parted to welcome me inside and I slipped between them, slid down until I reached the floor, sank into that hot place and sat there still, for a long time, as long as it took for me to stop crying.

We take a fresh napkin and fold it into a thick swab. We dab at the mayonnaise on the coleslaw until it’s dry.

‘Some things just take time, Ruth,’ my mother says, as she unfolds a fresh napkin. She presses it on top of the food, and then she rolls both napkins into a ball. I do the same. I fold my hands over the kitchen paper and squeeze, feel the lukewarm heat of meat and cold vegetables crushing up inside.

‘You know this,’ she says.

‘I sure do,’ I say.

My mother rises from her chair. She stuffs her ball into the chest hole of the chicken. I stand up too. I push my napkins full of the chicken, the carrot, the cabbage in behind hers, push them deep inside the carcass. We’re done. Neither of us has eaten a thing. My mother carries the serving plate to the kitchen bin, steps on the pedal and lowers it carefully inside, like she’s transporting a small child down a slide. She keeps her foot on the pedal to hold the lid open, so I can pour in the rest of the coleslaw.