The car drives itself home. Now it’s taking on the contours of the place I left: hazy and soft. I float up the path. Key slides in the door, well oiled and pink, I’d forgotten how pink – a bright tap-dancing fuchsia. And there She is, in her full technicolour glory. No ignoring her now. A thrumming music in the air. Manage to carry all the bags, the three full remaining bottles, into the kitchen, the kitty rubbing my ankles, her purring mingling with the gentle piano chords. Limbs like syrup, mind sedated, creatures doused, unable to stir.

The kitten’s mewling intensifies. Greedy guts, Yaya, feed Marmie! I fork Whiskas into her bowl, which is emptied, filled, emptied, filled, the same number of times as my glass. How much can the little one’s tummy hold – and mine? Swells, with the music. Crescendos. Am I sated yet? Numb, yes, emptied out. I get it now, that expression the guys used: wiped. I’m wiped, I’ve wiped all semblance of myself off the planet.

The wave crashes over me and I let myself be tumbled, swallowing gulpfuls of the sea. What is it, Tommy, what do you see? Is it that seagull? The colour of ice cream, he says, licking his lips, my lips, my cheeks. Come here, Tommy, come here. I reach out and press his body close, too close. He wriggles free, like a little sprite – like everyone in my life, he manages to escape my fierce, needy grasp.

I wake to a tiny bleating sound. ‘Ok, little kitty, ok.’ The kitten is trapped behind the fridge. I can see Jimmy’s horrified face staring at me. Jesus wept.

‘I know, I know, but I told you I wasn’t up to this.’

I stand gingerly and reach in to free the cat, wavy lines dancing in front of my eyes. Selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, monstrous, selfish. Tommy’s anxious eyes following me. What was that? Weakness, greed, testing, obliteration, giving up, giving in, madness, indulgence? Think back to the moment of ‘choice’, the moment of choosing to buy the booze, and all I can recall is an out-of-body sensation: giddy and high. Blackout before the booze, now there’s one I haven’t heard before. Bullshit, Sonya, excuses, excuses. Awful how sudden and sober and acute the thoughts that come are. How long have I set myself back with Tommy? How long before I can be breathalysed, give a sample or whatever I’ll be expected to do?

There they are: three empty bottles winking at me. The fourth stands proudly, defiantly, chest puffed – a dare. I smash it against the inside enamel of the sink; it splinters into shards and cuts into the centre of my palm. Turn on the tap and stick my hand under it, watch the water running pink. I try to sip a glass of water, hoping to rehydrate my scratchy eyes and extinguish the fire in my gut. Most of it comes back up. This is just perfect. A beautiful homecoming.