“How sexy,” I huff and take myself off to the bathroom, feeling my mood wobble a bit more when I see that he’s laid my medication out on the counter with another glass of water. With other boyfriends, I’d have been charmed by this evidence of care, but now it’s Misha, and I just want to scream. Confident, charming Misha who could have anyone and definitely a bloke who won’t have to take medication for the rest of his life.

I swallow down the confused rage and take the tablets, forcing a smile for him.

I make the smile stay there while we shower together, and he washes my hair tenderly as I lean against him. I want to be Charlie Sunshine for him. I’ve done it for all my other boyfriends, and as I love him so much more than anyone, I need to do it better for him. I want him to have fun with me, not be bogged down by everything. So, I plaster a smile on and hug him as he rinses my hair.

My smile falters slightly when he fastens my epilepsy bracelet over my wrist and lifts my wrist, kissing the veins softly. I want to at once throw myself into his arms and also drag my hand away from his and lock myself in the bedroom until I can get my thoughts clear.

Unfortunately, there’s no chance of doing that as we have to leave for the wedding. This day does not have a good feel to it.

* * *

The wedding is beautiful. It’s held in a small South London church, and I watch with tears in my eyes as Misha leads his mum down the aisle towards her new husband. Misha looks wonderful in his morning suit, the striped trousers clinging to the long muscles in his legs and the grey frock coat emphasising the width of his shoulders. But it’s his expression that captures most of my attention. Proud and calm and with a faint echo of piss-taking. It’s in the tilt of his lips and those blue eyes. Like he’s laughing inside at some joke that nobody else can hear. He shoots me a sudden look as they walk past and drops me a wink, and I feel my spirits rise. Maybe I can hear the joke too.

The reception is being held at a small boutique hotel in Kensington, and the food is gorgeous, although I pick at mine. I typically feel low-level nausea after a turn, and today is no exception. My stomach roils, and admitting defeat on the dessert, I put my spoon and fork down. Luckily, Misha is at the family top table and can’t see how little I’ve eaten, so I won’t get a lecture.