Niamh’s shitty Ford Fiesta doesn’t have air-con, so we have to drive all the way to Watford with the windows rolled down. My hair is a mess, and it’s too loud to talk, which would be fine, but now I’m going to have to scream, Turn this car around! for her to hear me.

Back at the surgery, all I could think about was how much I didn’t want to spend the afternoon with Niamh. But now I’m thinking about how much I don’t want to go back to Watford. I haven’t been back to Watford. And maybe I can’t go back. Maybe I actually can’t manage it.

We’ve left London behind us, and most of the suburbs, and we’re in the countryside now. We’ll see them soon. The Watford gates.

“Niamh,” I say.

She doesn’t hear me.

“Niamh!”

Her head jerks my way.

“Could you pull over?!”

“Why?!”

“I think I’m going to be sick!”

That does it, and it isn’t even a lie. Niamh pulls over to the side of the road. I lean forward, trying to get my head between my knees. My door opens, and Niamh is reaching over my lap to unlatch my seat belt. “You’re all right,” she says.

“I’m really not, thanks.”

“Sorry. Here. Have some water.”

I ignore her. There are waves of anxiety washing over me. I’m trying to figure out if they start in my stomach or my head.

“Agatha … have some water.”

I look up at Niamh and take the water bottle from her hand. I drink some.

“Do you want some fresh air?” she asks.

As if that’s what’s been lacking. I climb out of the car anyway. Perhaps Niamh will leave me here and pick me up on her way back to London.

“Look,” she says, “there’s even some shade.”

I follow her to a tree, a little bit away from the road. She’s holding her hands out, like she might have to catch me if I faint. I’m sure Niamh could carry me if she had to. She’s built like a lumberjack.

I lean against the tree trunk, sliding down to the ground.

“All right?” she asks.

“Still no.”

Niamh stands there for a minute with her hands on her hips, watching me. “Has this happened before?”

“No,” I say. Then, “I don’t know.” (I fainted once when I was abducted by a troll. Does that count?)

“Should I call your dad?”

“No. No, I’m just carsick. I just need a minute.”

Niamh sits down near me. “Drink some more water.”

“I’m carsick, not dehydrated.”

“You look rattled.”

I take another drink. “I’ll be fine.”

She’s watching me, red-faced and unhappy.