“Tracey!” I call out. Maybe she didn’t hear me because she keeps walking. In fact, I think she has sped up, because I have to accelerate to get closer. “Tracey!” I call again.

This time her feet hesitate and I see her shoulders droop, which makes me feel even more wretched.

I run the last few yards and I’m a little out of breath when I do catch up to her.

“Hey, Tracey, I thought it was you,” I say, attempting nonchalance.

She turns weary eyes on me and I can see she has pulled her coat tight across the stain on her shirt.

“Listen, sorry about lunchtime. El can be…”

“A bitch?” she says with ferocity.

I nod in agreement. “Yeah, a bitch.” I smile sympathetically. She looks at me for a moment, probably trying to work out whether I am being genuine or if there is something else coming her way. She even looks over my shoulder, checking to see if the others are going to appear out of nowhere, perhaps jump her or something.

Then her shoulders relax and she says, “It’s ok, I’m used to people like her,” and we carry on walking.

“No, it’s not ok. Don’t you want to catch the bus?” I ask.

“I prefer walking. It gives me headspace. I usually listen to music and I like being on my own.” She pats her coat pocket and I see a Walkman sticking out. “It’s usually a madhouse at mine because I have a younger brother and he’s… not well.”

“Right.” I’m not sure what to say next. Should I ask about him? Leave well alone? It’s different to my house. All I get is my own space.

“So what are you listening to?” I ask instead.

We start chatting about music as we walk. She is a Depeche Mode fan too – and The Cure. Then we get onto books and I find out she hasn’t read any Stephen King yet, so I offer to lend her It while she tells me to read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. All too quickly, we are near to the coastal path and I take her the long way around, past our house. I point out the house and she tells me it looks weird, spooky. From her lips it sounds like a compliment.

I don’t want to go in just yet, so we keep walking. At the far end of the coastal path, the little chip van is parked up in its usual spot and I realise I’m starving after my lack of lunch. I buy us chips and we smother them in salt and vinegar – no ketchup this time – and sit on a bench overlooking the sea, the rocks below us, laughing and chatting.