The waiter looked about as uncomfortable as Bess and made his escape to fetch the bread basket and drinks. In the moment of ensuing quiet, someone at the bar belched loudly. Bess and her parents stared at each other, their silence speaking volumes. What on earth had happened to the place? Michelle was right, it had always been grotty, but today it was both grotty and sad. Not the best combination for a birthday lunch and certainly not scrumptious. The three of them studied their menus.

‘I quite fancy the scampi,’ her mum said aloud with enthusiasm.

‘I’m thinking steak and ale pie with mash,’ her dad replied. ‘What about you, Bessie?’

‘Maybe a chicken salad?’ She couldn’t deny her mum’s comments had gone some way towards influencing her decision.

‘Don’t be daft, you can’t have a salad – it’s your birthday! Don’t worry about your weight on your birthday!’ her mum tutted.

‘But . . .’ The fact was, she hadn’t been worrying about her weight until her mother’s comment, not at all.

‘Plus, pub salads are sometimes bland and a bit too cold and tasteless. Why don’t you have the scampi too?’

The waiter delivered their bread and drinks and took their order. He was speedy and smiley and redeemed himself a little in Bess’s eyes. Her mum turned her nose up at the olives. Bess ate seven, straight off.

‘Just nipping to the little boys’ room.’ Her dad ambled off.

‘I hate it when he says that – it makes him sound like a paedophile,’ Bess said aloud.

Her mum put her buttered bread down sharply. ‘Honestly, what a terrible thing to say about your dad!’

‘No . . . I’m not saying he is a paedophile, I’m just saying that phrase, “nipping to the little boys’ room” – it’s a bit, eeuuw!’ She shuddered.

‘Right, I’ll put it on the list of all the things that we collectively do that are either wrong or irritate you, but I might just need another piece of paper.’

‘What are you talking about? You don’t do anything that irritates me,’ Bess lied.

‘Yes, I do. Like asking the waiter about using my voucher. I saw you shrink and blink. It’s always those little looks, the sighs, the biting of the lip.’ Bess bit her lip. ‘I irritate you.’

‘No, you don’t.’ Bess stabbed another olive with a cocktail stick.

‘Yes, I do.’