This morning Jean’s familiar white ruffled head was nowhere to be seen. Launching herself into the water, Minnie felt needles stab into every part of her skin. She struggled to control her breathing as her body fought against the cold. She blocked out the pain and started to swim rapid breaststroke. She counted her breaths; it took twenty for the pain to subside, then her body mellowed, the needles softening to warm tingles, and every part of her felt infused with energy, her brain burning off its early morning fog.

Swimming had become part of Minnie’s new routine. Now she was working for the catering company she had mornings to herself and felt healthier than she had in years. She had time to cook herself good food, do exercise, and she’d even started reading again. She worked six nights a week, and was trying to live frugally. She was saving up a rental deposit to move out of her parents’ house, and in another month or two she’d have enough. Life was simpler, easier, less stressful. Of course she missed the No Hard Fillings kitchen, she missed working with her friends, she missed Leila, but she was trying to be more optimistic, to see the positives.

Since their argument three months ago, she and Leila had patched up a practical peace. They’d had to communicate to wind down the business, but it was a sticking plaster on something that ran much deeper and they both felt it. The administrative hassle of dismantling the company had been easier than either of them imagined. By selling off the kitchen equipment and the delivery van, they’d had just enough to pay remaining salaries and settle the majority of their debt. Everything was made easier by the fact that a chicken-themed fast-food chain wanted to take the lease off their hands and agreed to buy their equipment at a fair price. In a matter of weeks, the deals had been done; it was like watching a giant, painstakingly crafted sandcastle being swept away by one giant wave.

The catering company Minnie now worked for was a production line of salmon en croûte and goat’s cheese tarts with a balsamic glaze. She worked in a rotation of venues, creating meals for weddings, parties, lunches and functions. She didn’t have much to do with the people who ate her food, or even the people who served it. She cooked, cleaned up, got paid and went home. She liked the impersonal nature of it. She didn’t have to think about the business model, about other people’s livelihoods depending on her. She didn’t have to think at all.

She’d stayed in touch with Alan and Bev. Letting them down had been the worst part of the whole thing.

‘We’ll be fine, don’t be thinking about us,’ Bev said, once she’d told them the news.