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Amber remained silent as the doors slid open again. A man with a leather satchel over his shoulder stepped in before they could step out.

‘Excuse us !’ Becky said loudly, half-barging into the man with her shoulder as they passed.

‘Becky!’ Amber said as the doors slid closed behind them.

‘What? He was rude. It’s not good elevator etiquette!’

‘Elevator etiquette?!’

‘You know what I mean.’

They walked in tandem through the glass doors and out onto the street, turning the corner and walking towards the Tube. ‘You know,’ Amber said carefully as they approached the entrance, ‘I have been worried about you.’

‘About me?’

‘Well, yeah. I’m not saying the doctor’s right as such, but you have been… well, a bit stressed the last little while. Not yourself. Even that man just now. He was a prick, right? But you were… well. Rude.’

‘You think?’

Amber nodded, tapping her Oyster card and entering the station. ‘I do,’ she answered at last. ‘I’m sorry Becky, but maybe it’s good you… reset. If you went back too soon… well. You might not have a job if something else happened.’

Minutes later they got onto a Tube and by some miracle, managed to find two seats next to each other.

Amber looked at Becky as if weighing something up.

‘I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. But…

you know, maybe this is a good thing. Perhaps you’re not in burnout yet. But you’re getting there, hon.’

Becky shook her head vehemently. ‘No. I’ve been stressed. But that’s it. No more than you are most of the time these days.’

‘Yes, well, Rufus is always?—’

‘What I’m saying is maybe that’s normal for our early thirties.

We’re trying to get up the career ladder and it is stressful.

It’s meant to be stressful. It’s just how it is.

Do you know my mum didn’t take a day off for a decade?

Except for Dad’s funeral. And even then, she was back at her desk within days. ’

Amber nodded. ‘Maybe,’ she said.

Becky turned away slightly, shaken by thoughts of her father. What would he do if he were here? Give her one of his enormous Old Spice hugs, let her cry into the wool of his familiar jumper. And make her feel better somehow. Not adrift. Not a loser.

‘But you know, you’ve always said you don’t want to turn out like your mum?’ Amber rubbed her left shoulder where her bag strap sat against her jacket.

‘Still giving you gyp?’

‘Yeah. I’ll go to the physio eventually. Just… no time.’

Becky nodded. ‘Anyway, you’re right. I don’t want to end up like Mum, not personality-wise. But her career trajectory…?’

‘And her salary…’ Amber said, raising an eyebrow. Both of them were on a good wage, but Cynthia’s yearly pay cheque had at least seven figures.

‘And she’s got a great lifestyle now. But she didn’t back then. That’s what I mean. A bit of self-neglect is normal at our age.’

‘It shouldn’t be though, should it?’

‘We’re strong, independent women! We can take it.’ Becky grinned.

Exiting the Tube, they made their way along the familiar streets, towards the apartment they shared, seeing shoppers, tourists, mums and dads with buggies; the people they never usually saw who populated the city centre during working hours. ‘Thanks for taking the time off,’ Becky said quietly.

‘Of course.’

‘You know the worst thing about it?’

‘What? Telling your mum?’

‘Yeah – trying not to think about that yet,’ Becky grimaced. ‘No, it’s the fact that the call… you know, the one that tipped me over the edge?’

‘The one that put paid to the poor laptop?’

‘Yeah. That one. It wasn’t even a work call. It was about the bloody café.’

‘I know. Typical, eh?’

The café had dominated their conversations for the last few months since Becky had received a letter out of the blue to say that her great-aunt had left her the café she’d owned in the Loire region of France.

Becky had immediately decided to sell, assuming it would be straightforward.

But nothing seemed to be going to plan. Information was sparse, phone calls were confusing.

Emails were difficult to understand even with an online translation app.

Then, just when she was hoping she’d made progress, she’d been told, as if it were an afterthought, that there was ‘un locataire en place ’ – a tenant who refused to shift.

‘I know. I mean they barely contact me for three months, then casually leave a message telling me there’s a sitting tenant so if I do want to sell, I’ll take a big hit on the price.’

Yes, perhaps she’d been foolish to rush into signing up for the London flat she’d seen.

But in her defence, she was currently throwing away ￡1,500 a month in rental and the flat she’d earmarked was bloody gorgeous.

She’d paid a reservation fee there and then, assuming she’d be able to sell the café and would get the money in time to pay the deposit.

Now she’d passed the deadline and despite negotiating an extension, it was looking less and less likely she’d be able to complete in time.

Surely anyone in that situation would be tempted to chuck something across a room?

‘And you told the doc it was a personal matter that made you feel… frustrated?’ Amber asked.

‘Burnout is burnout apparently. And I reckon she probably just thinks of me as some entitled rich girl now, too.’

‘To be fair, you are an entitled rich girl. At least compared to some.’

Becky gave her friend a little shove. ‘Hardly!’

‘ Oh, I inherited a café in a French village from a distant great-aunt. And I want to buy a really posh flat for myself with the money. But I can’t sell it and release thousands of euros because there’s a sitting tenant !’ Amber teased, putting on a posh voice.

‘Amber!’ Becky laughed. ‘If anything, it’s a poisoned chalice. Mum said Great-Aunt Maud used to be a bit manipulative. Reckons I should just sell it as is and take the hit.’

‘That does NOT sound like your mum.’

‘I know. She’s all for squeezing every last penny out of investments, usually.’

‘But maybe you should?’

Becky shook her head. ‘No. I’m not a quitter. I’ll get rid of that stupid tenant.’

‘If anyone can, you can.’ Amber unlocked the front door and they both walked instinctively to the kitchen where Becky got out some mugs as Amber boiled the kettle. ‘You know I wanted to talk to you about my work, if you’ve got a?—’

‘Do you mind if we save it? I don’t think I can face talking about work stuff right now.’ Becky made a face. ‘I’ve got to call Mum yet, and she is going to go insane.’

Amber nodded, filling the cups. ‘Sure. Later maybe?’

‘OK. And film night?’

‘Definitely.’

It had become a tradition a few years ago: Thursday nights were old movie nights where they’d slip a favourite, battered DVD from a sleeve and rewatch.

The DVDs had been theirs since their teens and were for the most part romcoms of the sort they’d never admit to watching.

Using the DVDs despite their ability to stream almost anything was part of the tradition – the cases and their contents were as comforting as old friends.

‘ Jerry Maguire ?’

‘You mean the film about a guy who’s fired? Who flips out in the office and has a breakdown?’

‘Ah. Yeah. Maybe not this time.’

‘ Four Weddings ?’

‘Sounds splendid!’ Becky said, putting on a posh English accent in place of her usual sub-posh Hertfordshire one.

‘Yes, I agree, splendid.’

‘Well, then, splendid!’

‘Splendid.’

Becky took her mug into her bedroom and slumped on her bed, scrolling through her phone.

Six months ago, she’d felt on top of the world.

Now she was signed off work, had an eye that had taken on a life of its own, and hadn’t slept properly for as long as she could remember.

It was amazing how quickly things could change.

Sighing, she found her mother in her contacts and pressed Call.

‘Mum? Yeah, I’ve got something to tell you.’