You’re not who you think you are.

The thought comes from nowhere and I touch my temples, feeling unsettled.

A sign for services appears and Tom yawns and rolls his shoulders. ‘Thank God, I’m starving.’ He turns off the main road and I rub my arms, trying to shake off the sense that the chant means something. I can’t have heard it before. It just feels that way because of the dream. Like Tom said, the words were gibberish – meaningless.

5

The rain has slowed to a drizzle as we pull into the parking area. Tom finds me some socks, sniffing several pairs until seemingly satisfied, and I put them on, preferring not to inspect them myself. I pull a face as I shove on my damp work shoes and Tom reaches into a bag and produces a pair of white trainers. They’re gigantic – three times the size of my feet. He waves them up and down, making them do a little dance on the air.

‘Come on!’ he laughs. ‘It would be funny to see you walk in them.’

‘Hmm. I look ridiculous enough without the need for clown shoes.’

As I exit the car, I realise the scale of the challenge facing me. The shorts are so big that I’ll need to hold them up as I walk, or they’ll fall around my ankles. Even when I tighten the drawstring and fold over the waistband, they still reach past my knees. Why does Tom have to be so tall? With the huge baggy sweatshirt, I look like I’ve been shrunk in the wash.

Tom presses his lips together, his face flushing pink, and I can’t blame him for wanting to laugh. I loosen my grip on the waistband, letting it drop even lower. ‘Something you find funny?’ I ask. He has that look about him. Any second now he’ll erupt into giggles. He shakes his head a little too vigorously and walks off, leaving me to gather my dignity up with the shorts and waddle after him.

The main building resembles a warehouse – long and squat and painted dark grey, with a dozen concrete steps and a ramp to one side, leading to a parade of glass-fronted shops. Above the entrance hangs a colourful banner, advertising the exciting retail options inside (a supermarket, café, post office and garden centre) and declares the place to be a thriving and vibrant shopping experience. The car park is practically deserted and the only people I see are two teenage boys slumped on a bench and an old lady with long white hair muttering to herself as she sorts through a trolley full of bin bags. Whoever came up with that slogan has clearly never left rural mid-Wales.

Tom spots the entrance to the café and takes the steps four at a time (why do tall people always have to show off?), leaving me behind as usual. One of the boys sees me coming and elbows his mate on the bench. Ignoring them, I hold on to the crotch of the shorts with one hand and get my swag on Billie Eilish-style – to hell with the drop risk.