As if she hadn’t already known it, this confirms everything for Becky. Soon it is extremely unlikely that she will see Mary for the rest of the night. Despite all their promises it isn’t practical for them to do everything together. They are not Siamese twins. Mary is fun, which is why she is laughing with a boy she really likes. Becky is more introverted, harder to like, she thinks. It occurs to Becky that after tonight Mary may not in fact need her around any more. Having played her role as wingman she will be made redundant, a needless adjunct once Brendan is at the heart of Mary’s life. And then where will Becky belong?

It is no good for Becky to have these thoughts – not at this party, in this house where she doesn’t know anyone. But what can she do? She can’t afford a cab home on her own. Should she find a corner and try to sleep?

She lights another cigarette as Mary walks out of the room holding Brendan’s hand.

How embarrassing to feel so sad about something so small, a friend going off with a boy. Instead of what?

She wonders about the night bus. She can afford that. What’s the route? And can she bear it, drunk and alone and, yes, quite close to crying now?

She feels a hand at her back and a pathetic sense of gratitude rises in her that someone wants to talk.

‘Hey,’ Scott says.

He is tall, blond, good-looking. A friend of Brendan’s. Not quite in his group but not out of it either. One of those people who move around and seem to know how to get along with everyone.

‘There’s a game of Spin the Bottle going on upstairs. Mary and Brendan sent me to get you. We’ve got all the “stuff” up there.’

‘Spin the Bottle?’

‘Yeah, it’s retro. No obligations. You could just do a pill.’

‘What if the bottle says I have to do heroin?’

He doesn’t get her joke fast enough to laugh at it. She wishes she could take it back.

‘So do you want to come?’

Suddenly she knows that, more than anything, she is fed up with standing here with her thoughts. She wants to climb out of her head and have some fun.

This will fill some hours.

To think that she could have chosen the arduous night bus journey. The chances are she’d have made it home uncomfortable and tired, but safe and sound and awake enough the next day to enjoy her mum’s Sunday roast. But then again, she could also have fallen asleep on the top deck and found herself at the depot miles from anywhere, lost and vulnerable.

Followed home.

Or worse.

As it is, she stays at the party. She drains her beer bottle to its last tasteless drop, looks at Scott and tells him, ‘I’m game.’