As I think about all this, I start to feel nauseous. It’s been a day with a huge amount of emotion, an even larger amount of alcohol and now this. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what to think. But with Tom out of the house and me having to spend the night on my own, I’m also well aware that I don’t need to think or feel anything right now.

The aftereffects of the alcohol and adrenaline are hitting me hard. I crawl up the stairs and into my bedroom, before climbing up onto the cold duvet and sinking my head into the pillow. I shouldn’t have done this. I should get up and brush my teeth, at least, or change into something a little more comfortable. But I am comfortable. I’m…

35

Saturday 15 February

The first thing I register as I wake up is the disgusting taste in my mouth. I can only imagine this is what it must be like to lick a badger’s arse.

The second is the indescribable throbbing — banging — of my head. It pierces through my skull and down the back of my neck like nothing I’ve ever felt before. There’s absolutely no way in hell those vodkas and Cokes were singles. They must have at least been doubles, if not triples. But Tom said he—

Tom. My eyes fly open as I remember last night. The fight. He left. I roll my head to the side, wincing as I do so, to see Tom’s side of the bed is empty. It hasn’t been slept in.

Some bits are as clear as day, and others are hazy. We got home. I was being flirty, he pinned me up against the wall, he walked out, I made coffee… Did I? No.

The email.

My heart lurches as I remember it — snippets of it. I remember feeling like it had sobered me up, but that was clearly just an illusion. I don’t even think I’m sober now. I reckon I’m probably still drunk.

I reach for my phone, unlock it and notice a message on my screen.

It’s from Tom.

Boarding flight now. Sorry about last night. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll call you when I get to Japan x

I can deal with that later. Not much point replying back now, as he won’t see it for hours.

I open my email app to read it again. A few bits have come in overnight: some spam, Tinder asking me where I’ve been for the past couple of months, a notification that my credit card bill is available to view online. I scroll down to find the email that came in last night. I can still remember her name. Jess Caton.

But I can’t find it.

I won’t have deleted it. That would’ve been stupid. I check my Deleted Items folder just in case, but it’s not there either.

This is ridiculous. I force myself out of bed, feeling my stomach lurch as I do so, and make my way downstairs. When I get into the kitchen, I open my laptop in its position on the table, blinking at the bright glare of the screen, and enter my password. It takes me a couple of attempts to do so with my shaking hands, but I’m finally in. I open my inbox and look for Jess Caton’s email.