‘I’d follow you anywhere,’ he said. He would always be able to say it was her idea. ‘Let’s go.’

It wasn’t as radical as it felt. He would have to resign from Foundations but she could take three months unpaid leave from Stamford Hill Psychotherapy. Her post would still be there when they came home, as would the crisis helpline where she volunteered. He would have to find something different. They could get a short-term tenant for the flat and use the Cushion to pay their way. The Cushion was the £4,370 they had in a savings account. When money was tight they reminded themselves of it. We’ve got the Cushion. Sometimes it was the Fucking Cushion. The Tiny Cushion. The Shrinking Cushion.

‘It’ll be perfect, babe,’ said Dan. ‘We can use the Cushion, and everything good will still be the same when we get back.’

‘I know,’ said Bea.

‘Do you really want to go?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You promise?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

She was happy to go. She was. She thought of work, and the constant effort of reminding herself that hard as she must try to help people, she must never fall into the trap of believing she could save them. She had tried to help Emma. She had failed. She was gripping the framework of her life, but she was powerless. Perhaps it would be good to let it go. She told herself she must. Dan was asleep beside her. Imagining their travels, she surrendered. Soon afterwards she fell asleep. She slept deeply for a while but later, in the darkest part of the night, she had the dream. There was almost nothing else in it but noise and terror; just her and Dan on a white road and the cacophonous sound of screaming like the sound of Hell. It woke her, and she lay trembling, staring into the dark as the sound faded. She lay in the grateful silence, with the white road still in her eyes and dread slipping away into the corners of the room. She thought how strange it was to have a nightmare when they had such plans, and she was so happy.

2

The service station on the A26 from Calais was sunny and civilised. The day was mild. They sat outside and had a coffee, watching children playing on the manufactured grassy slopes. They’d bought a left-hand drive Peugeot in London, the week before they left. It had seventy thousand miles on the clock and a manual gearbox. Most of the car was blue but the bonnet, for no reason the seller would commit to, was matt-black.

‘It looks like shit,’ Bea had whispered to Dan, out of earshot.

‘It is shit, it’s nine hundred quid.’

They’d left London the morning before their tenant, a PhD student from Korea, was due to move in. Her rent would cover the mortgage and give them a little extra and they had the Cushion to pay their way. They had imagined their Peugeot would feel at home in France but all the other cars looked sleek and big and they felt like vagrants.