Roberta

      I was wearing the wrong bra for sitting in a police cell.

      It was sod’s law that I’d chosen today to try out my early Christmas present from Scott. But I hadn’t dressed thinking the police would confiscate my blouse as ‘evidence’. I’d dressed thinking that sexy underwear might put my husband into a more festive frame of mind.

      When we arrived at the police station, the officer who’d arrested me, PC Julie Pikestaff, led me into the custody suite. I was more used to suites containing champagne and roses.

      PC Pikestaff quickly explained why I’d been brought in to the custody officer behind the counter, sighing as though if it weren’t for me, she’d be stretched out on a sun lounger in St Lucia. ‘She’ll have to take her shirt off. We need to bag it up.’

      The custody officer ferreted around under the desk and handed Pikestaff a white boiler suit, saying, ‘She can put this on once you’ve booked her in. Take her cuffs off.’

      The creak in my shoulder blades as I brought my arms in front of me reminded me that I needed to go back to Pilates. The stunned disbelief that had enveloped me on the journey to the police station was starting to evaporate. That boiler suit epitomised how low I’d sunk.

      I tried to find the voice I used at parents’ evenings when teachers were evading my questions, but I could only manage a croak of despair.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t wear that.’

      People like me only came to police stations to report stolen iPads or missing Siamese cats. I was already trying to salvage any scrap of pride I had left. Rustling around in that wretched space suit might finish me off completely.

      Pikestaff waved dismissively. ‘Look, it’s just something to cover you up while your blouse is examined for forensics. No big deal.’

      Before she could say anything else, two policemen burst through the door, struggling to restrain a couple of girls in their mid-twenties. One had dyed black hair, thigh-length boots and the tiniest red miniskirt.