‘Sorry.’ I thumped the receiver down again in frustration; glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was ridiculously early.

‘Eight-nine-eight,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Nine-eight-nine.’ For God’s sake! How could I not remember? I made a third attempt. Somehow, somewhere in the depths of last night’s accident, I’d wiped out my home number. I’d wiped out my home.

Of course, he didn’t answer. Alex hardly ever answered the phone, even at the best of times. Now it was so early he’d be asleep. Or – I steadied that thought to a shuddering halt. He was asleep. He slept so very deeply once he’d actually dropped off. I’d ring back in half an hour. He’d be getting up then; getting up for work, not knowing anything was wrong. Maybe a little concerned, of course, but –

I replaced the phone carefully on the stand and smoothed my hospital gown down over my knees. I really did feel rather peculiar. And I was freezing now.

When I finally went back to my bed, the next-door one was empty, the wail silenced. The small nurse stripping it wouldn’t catch my eye; her jaw was set grimly. I started to shiver, my teeth chattering in my head. The nice nurse came back with her list. She looked at me; she seemed a little worried.

‘I’ll bring you some sweet tea. The sugar’ll do you good. The police are here now. They’ll explain things to you.’

As she adjusted my pillow, I caught the typed heading on the paper. ‘SURVIVORS’, its bold black letters stated unequivocally. My bowels clenched in a strange involuntary movement. How could I be on a list? I made lists, that’s what I did, compiled lists of people, and attached those lists to a clipboard, clasped the clipboard protectively to my chest so that no one but me could consult it, and then checked people off that list. I ticked the names off as they arrived, fretted when they didn’t, shepherded them around the warren of corridors at the studios, and primed them on what to say down in the dressing-rooms. I couldn’t be on a list; I didn’t want to be on a list. I wanted to get the hell off the list and out of here. I wanted Alex to come and get me the hell out of here.

On my fourth try, Alex answered.

‘Thank God.’ I started to cry with relief. Once I started, I found I couldn’t stop.

‘What?’

‘Thank God you’re there.’

He was groggy, uncommunicative. He was always terrible in the morning. ‘Why are you crying?’

‘Sorry.’ I breathed deeply to quieten my sobs. ‘I’m okay, don’t worry.’ I stifled another sob. ‘Can you come and get me?’

‘What time is it?’

He was probably hung over.

‘I don’t know. It’s early. I’m in the hospital.’