Her mum tutted in irritation. ‘Here’s the thing: I like my life, Bessie, and you need to like yours.’ She took another bite of her bread and butter. ‘I have always liked my life. I like your dad. I like my house. I like the city I live in and I love you and Philip. And it makes me happy – all of it. It’s enough. But if I didn’t like it, I would change it.’

‘You make it sound easy.’ Bess looked her mum in the eye. I can’t go back and change things, it’s too late.

‘It is easy – you just need that magic thing beginning with “C” and you can go anywhere you choose.’

‘A car?’

Her mum closed her eyes. ‘For the love of bloody God! No, not a car! Courage, Bessie! Courage!’

Courage – she saw the word scrawled on the window frame of a speeding train, remembered the Tupperware box with the piccalilli stain in the corner, nestling on the table, filled with sandwiches she did not want to eat, and the sound of the conductor, calling out, ‘Tickets, please! All tickets, please!’

The waiter waltzed up to their table and deposited her dad’s pie and mash, her mother’s scampi and chips and her own rather disappointing salad. She took one look at the fat golden chips on her mother’s plate and knew she had misfired. It was an ailment that dogged her: ‘post-order regret syndrome’, where she always, always, preferred the look of what someone else had chosen.

‘Thank you,’ her mum beamed.

Bess forked a piece of sorry-looking lettuce into her mouth. It was indeed too cold and a little tasteless.

‘Sorry, ladies, thought it’d be a tinkle – turned out to be a package.’ Her dad arrived back at the table, interrupting with his graphic update, and both Bess and her mother winced in disgust.

‘For the love of God!’ Bess said, pushing her plate away. The image of her dad on the loo was enough to put her right off her food.

‘What’s the matter? I used code as it’s your birthday,’ her dad chuckled, and holding his tie flat to his chest, sat back down. ‘Besides, I think it’s good to have a dump mid-meal – means I’ve made room for pudding!’ He winked at his wife, who laughed.

‘Ignore Bess, she’s feeling a bit sensitive. She has a lot on her mind,’ her mum said out of the side of her mouth, loading up her fork with a glorious-looking chip, glistening with salt flakes glued on with vinegar.

‘Is that right? You have a lot on your mind, love?’ her dad asked loudly, shoving gravy-laden pastry into his mouth. Her mum could put that on her list if she liked – the way her dad ate; it irritated the shit out of her. ‘Like what?’

Bess toyed with her salad.