The stylist brings Neve back to the station and she sits down. She still looks impressive even with a towel wrapped round her head—cow. I watch her with slack-jawed intent. I can’t get comfortable on this sofa. It’s like sitting on a block of concrete and the back’s too low, forcing me to sit upright as if I’m on a spike. So what do I do now? I know who she is. I know what she looks like. I know her name. I know that she has taken my boyfriend away from me.

The stylist has started cutting now. Tiny nibbles at Neve’s perfect hair. She looks like a woman unconcerned by other people’s troubles. And it seems to me the world would be a nicer place if we humans weren’t so cruel or so indifferent to each other. The stylist is smiling at her as she chatters. I wonder what she’s telling her? Is she confiding that her new boyfriend has just moved in? Is she revealing that he already had a girlfriend who is now desperately unhappy? Is she revelling in the fact that she has won him over someone else? Neve flicks her head about a lot when she talks, which must make the hairdresser feel like stabbing her with the scissors. Or perhaps it’s just me who feels that way.

I can’t stand this any longer, so I slide out of my seat, unseen, and go back out into the street. The air is cold after the hot fug, the lacquer and perm-lotion scent of the salon. And I feel dizzy with relief that I’m no longer in there.

Walking back along the street, towards Dunston & Bradley’s office, I consider what my next move might be. I could wait for Jake, confront him now, but I just haven’t got any strength left. I feel drained, exhausted and as if I’ve been punched in the gut. My rib cage feels nearly as bruised as my ego. The sandwich bag is damp under my grasp and my fingers are getting cramp from holding it too tightly. There’s no way I’m ever going to be able to eat the contents.

I pass the sandwich bar and decide to go back inside. There’s no queue now as the brief lunchtime frenzy is mercifully over.

‘A cup of tea, please,’ I say and wait patiently, gathering little bags of sugar and miniature cartons of full-fat milk and plastic stirrers to pass the time.

I pay and take the cup of tea outside. Across the street, the old dosser is curled up on the park bench. I imagine that I can smell him from here, but I think it’s because all my senses are on red alert. The traffic is stopped at a crossing and I dash across the road.