‘I believe I promised you bubbles!’ He walked to a small table in front of the window and picked up a bottle from an aluminium bucket. She noticed he had taken off his socks and shoes, and it sent a quiver of discomfort along her limbs. She could see his feet! Their neighbour who she nodded to across the cul de sac as he pulled the wheelie bin in and out of the road on a Wednesday night and on a Thursday morning – she could see his feet! The man whose drinks party they attended each Christmas, as he offered advice on wines, and nearly always wearing a cherry-red, V-necked sweater over a white shirt. She could see his feet! Feet and toes were such an intimate thing, reserved for family, very close friends, babies, lovers and fellow swimmers. And just the sight of them padding across the carpet was enough to break the seal on any deeper-lying anxieties. She felt the first stirring of fear – no one knew she was here and the fact that she was in a bedroom, alone with Mr Maxwell, was ridiculous, almost comical. She pictured Mario lying in her arms earlier, crying over their lost little one and wondered how comical he would find it. Sickness and regret swirled in her gut, and again she looked at the door.

Whatever are you doing here, Bess?

‘Actually, Andrew, thanks, but I don’t want a drink – driving,’ she explained.

‘Not even one?’ He waved the bottle back and forth at her as if this boozy pendulum might hypnotise her into changing her mind.

‘No, but a glass of water would be nice.’ Her mouth was dry and she felt ridiculously that it was the polite thing to ask for.

‘Righto. They forgot to bring glasses, the bloody idiots.’ He shook his head and she took the slight personally. She was someone who served food and drink for a living and knew how easy it was to slip up on one small detail when her mind was overloaded, doing three things at once with one ear out for timers, the system often chaotic and unpredictable, with tasks building until she was running just to stand still and always with one eye on the clock, waiting for the moment she could get into her rusting little car and head home, tired, desperate for a cup of tea and wondering why she wasn’t as popular as Sushmita.

Andrew reached for the cups from the tray and she saw that one had something welded to the inside, which looked like a small piece of cabbage or lettuce. She guessed it was either the handiwork of a belligerent former guest or the result of an inefficient dishwasher. Either way, she didn’t want to raise it, not when his reaction over forgotten glasses had been so acute – God only knows what the man might have to say over a rogue bit of green veg.