Her mum was right – she needed to take risks, be braver. Bess looked at the junction at which she needed to turn left to head for home. Her fingers hovered over the indicator stalk, but driven by something other than duty and thirsting for a red-ringed day, she chose to drive straight on – unsure of where she was heading but knowing with certainty that she did not want to go home and sit among the biscuit-coloured surroundings and check Facebook to see if she had caught up with Sushmita. She didn’t want to park in her usual spot on the driveway, fumble around in her bag for her door keys, reach into the fridge for milk to splash into her umpteenth cup of coffee of the day, which sometimes she only drank to break up the monotony. No. It was her birthday and she wanted to do something for herself – go somewhere she wanted to go. Somewhere glamorous where she might not be invisible, and wanting so desperately to shake off the belt of dissatisfaction cinched so tightly around her waist, she was finding it hard to take a full breath.

Bess drove as if on autopilot, paying heed to the law and stopping at red lights, until suddenly there it was – the sign that read ‘The Glade Hotel’. She drove into the car park and pulled up among the fancy shiny motors. It was a far cry from the grotty carvery, and just to be among it all was a thrill. Pulling on the handbrake, she stared up at the imposing building. It was busy. There was no surreptitious hiding of her face or creeping like a robber in the shadows. She sat up straight and didn’t worry about being seen – why would she, when she was mostly invisible? Smartly dressed people criss-crossed the car park, entering and leaving the adjacent grounds, while others strolled in and out of the entrance. Families, couples, mates having afternoon tea, and solitary businessmen with solemn expressions, wearing formal clothes too restrictive for the weather – and one such man was waiting for her in Room 626.

Bess could hear the sound of her blood rushing in her ears as her heart raced and something like excitement jumped in her gut. Studying her face in the small mirror, she spat on her finger and wiped it beneath her lower lashes to remove stray flecks of mascara. Next she opened her handbag and grabbed the half-tube of slightly softened Polos, from which she peeled the two nearest the top and popped them in her mouth, doing her best to disguise the tang of chicken salad and deceit. She texted her mum with the message ‘Home x’, deleting it immediately, knowing it would arrive and allow her mum to settle, but also knowing she would be quite unable to face the lie later. That was how lies worked – easy to put out into the world, but very hard to live with long term.