“No, that’s not what I meant. I just … I miss you when you’re not here. I wish …”

She left the thought unfinished, but I knew what she meant. It was a shitty thing living across the world from someone you loved.

“Me too,” I replied quietly.

We were back in melancholic territory again and Cat rescued us by changing the subject. “So, what are you and James going to do today?” She pushed a bowl of cereal and a spoon across the counter. There was no one in the world who was a better hangover nurse than my sister.

“I haven’t texted him yet, so I’m not even sure he’s free. And I have no idea where he lives. He said London, but that could be anywhere inside the M25.” I ate a spoonful from my bowl.

“True. But if he’s as wealthy as you say, it’s probably somewhere in the single digits.”

“Mmm,” I said, chewing and covering my mouth. “Single digits?”

“You can’t have forgotten,” she ribbed. “We’re in E14—double digits. He’s probably in Kensington or Notting Hill, could be Knightsbridge, maybe Hampstead Heath. Or, he could live in Richmond. It’s double digits, but it’s posh. Oh, I love Richmond,” she added wistfully.

Cat’s early morning geography lesson was doing my head in and I struggled to keep up. Besides, when we’d lived in London together, our flat was in N8 and that was not a posh suburb.

“Crouch End has a single digit postcode,” I said, through a mouthful of cereal.

“Right,” she acknowledged. “Not exactly posh, but it’s brimming with hipsters now. Anyway, you know what I mean. He probably lives in a central single digit. Or Richmond.”

She was right about Richmond, by the way—it was beautiful. I loved it too, especially the part along the Thames. I had some lovely memories of long afternoons spent at riverside pubs. It also had great charity shops—people with money donate the most incredible things. I’d once snagged a gorgeous, fits-me-like-a-glove, black leather jacket for fourteen pounds from Oxfam on Richmond High Street.

The whole conversation was moot, however, because I had no idea where James lived. “Yeah, maybe,” I replied noncommittally.

Cat seemed to be faring far better than me by the time we finished breakfast. As she tidied up the kitchen, she chatted cheerfully about all the plans she had for us. Meanwhile, I considered it a major accomplishment to keep my breakfast down and my body upright. I tried to concentrate on the multitude of details she was spouting, but my mind kept drifting off.

Finally, and please keep in mind that I adore my sister, she left the kitchen to have a shower and I was plunged into welcomed silence.

Left alone, I turned my attention to the most pressing matter at hand—replying to James. When I retrieved my phone from my (beautiful and much-loved) leather handbag, I realised I had neglected to charge it the night before. Drunk Sarah is useless at remembering such mundane but necessary tasks. Thankfully, though, it still had 15% battery left. I opened James’s text.