At the junction, there was nothing coming at first glance; but then, as she steered right, she saw a car was heading down the road without its headlights. She would’ve hit the horn but didn’t want to get into a confrontation, so she hurried out ahead of it. Passing by, she bowed her head from view. Until she was a few miles out of Ockham, she was going to have to keep the headscarf on and make sure that her face was never seen. The more she drove, the more she sweated in the seat. Everything beneath her coat was hot and clammy, while the outer parts were chilled to goose pimples. She wished she’d put on nylons. Snot was pooling at her nose. As she drove, she didn’t give much thought to her direction, but she wondered how things might’ve been if only half the lies she’d told her brother and the Mayhoods had been true.

What might it have been like to meet a kind man at the post office and have him take you for a drink? A fella with brown hair and specs who wore a lovely worsted blazer: that was the description she’d fed Charlie. It didn’t sound too bad. She’d always hoped to find herself a Lassiter from Riders of the Purple Sage – gentle-natured, brooding, with a hard-set jaw and eyes that withered you right where you stood – but men like him were no more real than any of the fakes who she’d invented. ‘I’m not sure what hours he works. He’s area manager,’ she’d told her brother. ‘They’ve got him going up and down to branches everywhere for miles, and there’s hardly any rhyme or reason to it. I’m lucky if I ever see him. I just go there every day and hope that I’ll bump into him.’ Well, she and her imaginary fella wouldn’t have a future after she’d got through with things tonight. He’d get a call to national service or he’d land himself employment overseas. She was going to be out of love again; and, even though it hadn’t been a true love, she would miss it.

These country lanes were slim and hard to navigate. The empty arms of trees spanned one side to the other. Headlamps wobbled in the mirror, far behind. The overgrowth of hedges whipped the bonnet as she passed. She kept her speed exactly at the limit. Once she reached the carriageway, she could unwind. Settle in with all the traffic, put her foot down, coast. But for a good few miles, she only had her thoughts for company, which wasn’t any company at all.

She didn’t know the buyer’s name. That didn’t trouble her. Sometimes, it was better not to have the information, as it only put her in a weary state, anticipating faces in the room that matched the pictures in her head. Besides, the buyer wouldn’t be there. Once she got to Streatham Vale, she’d come across a lighting and repair shop, big gold letters on the window saying: G. G. WILSON’S.