Page 117 of Secret Paths

“Good.”

The rain has softened into mist by the time I get to the car.

I briefly consider the chemist, then picture the tiny high-street shelves and Mandy’s last instruction about plain knickers. No. That is not a village chemist errand. That is a Sainsbury’s errand.

I drive towards the big supermarket between St Claire and Settle, telling myself this is a perfectly normal thing to do on a Saturday.

Which it is.

Technically.

Inside, the supermarket is bright, busy and impersonal enough to make me feel safer than I deserve. I find the sanitary towels first and spend longer than is dignified reading packets. There are wings, which is encouraging. There are also enough variations to suggest the entire aisle has been designed as an exam I have not revised for.

I choose two options that look most likely to meet the brief, add ibuprofen, then head to the underwear section with the fixed expression of a man trying not to look like he has wandered into the wrong chapter of his own life.

The knickers are easier.

Three-pack. Black. Plain. Size twelve. No slogans. No cartoon characters. No terrifying declarations of mood.

I put them in the basket with more relief than underwear has any right to inspire.

On the way to the tills, I pass the chocolate.

I stop.

Then I add a bar of dark chocolate to the basket.

A few steps later, I add Maltesers too.

Then fruit pastilles, because by this point the basket already has a theme, and apparently that theme is panic with sugar.

I am almost at the self-checkout when I hear my name.

“Peter?”

Of course.

I turn.

Alexandra stands by the greeting cards, holding a packet of envelopes and a bottle of fabric conditioner. Her eyes move to my basket.

Then stay there.

For too long.

“Lexi,” I say.

“Peter.”

The supermarket carries on around us. Trolleys rattle. A child complains about bananas. Somewhere behind me, a self-checkout announces an unexpected item in the bagging area with the confidence of a machine that has never known shame.

Alexandra walks closer.

Her eyebrows lift.

“That,” she says, “is a very specific shop.”

“It is.”