She tried to go back to her book, Hotel du Lac. She was only reading it because it had been on her shelf for years and she couldn’t bring herself to throw away an unread book; it didn’t seem right. Besides, it was short and light and fitted in her bag. But it was a futile exercise. She couldn’t concentrate. She felt tired and irritable, her mind an endless tangle of disquiet. She hadn’t practised meditation or yoga for months now. Always the same: as soon as she re-established her own calm, found a little peace, she forgot to continue with it. And her mind would crowd itself again. She really should try to prioritize it.

More people piled on board: city folk, inner-city folk, last of the schoolkids, a bus full of all colours and creeds, everyone equally tired and wet. Her eye was caught by a woman in a burka carrying two heavy bags full of shopping. The truth was that Emma found burkas scary. She stared at her, this formless shadow like death without the scythe; she had no idea whether the woman was staring back because her eyes were not visible. To Emma, who was feeling irked by everything today, she was a walking symbol of female oppression, a woman who had been both blinded and made invisible by men. It made her angry; we, as women, have worked very hard in this country to be heard and seen.

Immediately she felt guilty and shifted apologetically to make room for the woman, but the actual room she was making was nothing; she was merely demonstrating that she was a good person and that she wasn’t Islamophobic. Or was she Islamophobic? No, misogyny was the problem and that was a cultural problem, not a religious one.

The woman sat down and put the bags between her legs, her thigh rubbing against Emma’s. Emma instinctively responded in the trusty British way: ‘Sorry,’ she said, and shifted again. But instead of politely retreating, the woman’s thigh quickly took up the new space Emma had provided. Emma felt annoyed then guilty again, hoping that the woman didn’t think she’d moved her thigh away because she was a racist. The bus lurched forwards and the driver beeped. She was longing to get home, to get this day over and done with. Like a magic trick, the woman then produced a phone from within the folds of her garment. Emma watched the scrolling screen from the corners of her eyes; the woman’s fingernails had little pictures of moons and stars on them. They stopped at the name Mo. The woman held the phone to her ear, which was almost equidistant from Emma’s own ear, and Emma found herself waiting expectantly for Mo to pick up.