Fall at some point into some semblance of sleep on the couch; must do, because when I wake he’s standing over me.

‘Mind if I do?’ he says, as he sits beside me, drawing me close.

My body stiffens; I stink, need to stand under a shower, alone, but don’t want him not to want to be with me. He pulls my hair back off my face and kisses my cheek. Who is this carefree version of David? It’s as if he transferred all his uptightness into me last night – he should be mortified by what just happened. He should be very worried about what he just did.

‘Can I make you breakfast?’

I manage a polite ‘I’ll do it after my shower.’

‘Don’t bother your pretty head with that.’

What script is he following now? I walk as slowly as I can manage, when every part of me wants to run. As soon as I’m inside the bathroom I lock the door. The shower is as hot and the flow as hard as my skin will allow. I massage my coconut-and-lime Tesco special-offer shampoo into my scalp, a cheap waft of suds permeating my everything.

I cover myself in a big bath towel, scurry to the bedroom, wishing I could lock the door. What to wear? Decide on a demure look: checked shirt and jeans, barefoot, light touch of make-up. He wolf-whistles when I walk into the kitchen. I’m offended, but only slightly, more alarmed than anything. I should have seen it: he has a love/sex-addict thing going on. Isn’t this why there are strict guidelines in recovery? The danger of swapping one addiction for another. David has over ten years in sobriety, so he should be able to handle intimacy, although regarding him now, there’s no doubt that dopamine, or some other highly addictive feel-good chemical, has been triggered in his brain. His eyes are shining and faraway and it’s obvious he’s inhabiting some other world.

I haven’t worked out the exact shape of his fantasy yet but am certain it involves some form of conquest: Fair Maiden. Has he cast himself as a conquering master, hero, servant, slave? I really want him out of my house. The smell of the eggs is making me sick. He serves me a heap of scrambled on soggy toast, lots of pepper. He doesn’t even ask, just twists away at the grinder. Everything about him is irritating: his stupid happy whistling, his long skinny legs, the memory of them wrapped around me, almost choking me, his ridiculous smile. I want the old David back, the one I craved to touch, because he was out of bounds.

‘Are you ok, Sonya? You’re very pale.’

‘I’m not hungry, sorry.’ I push the plate away. ‘Didn’t sleep very well… Not great when I don’t sleep.’ Trying to minimise the chaotic, jangled emotions that are spilling about.

‘Would you like me to go now, give you your space?’

‘Might be a good idea. Feeling a little overwhelmed.’ The most honesty I’ve managed in years.