She showed him where the kettle was, and what was in almost every cupboard, as if he was planning to stay a fortnight. Then she padded across the hall. Her shower went on as long as a classical concert. James looked at the calendar, on which Michaela had circled today’s date numerous times and drawn two generously proportioned runners in cartoon form, arms outstretched in triumph. James felt goosebumps on the back of his neck. Without really knowing why, he flipped back through the old months, back to April. The three evenings of the course were marked out with the words GYM THING, and on the third one Michaela had scribbled, in red pen, a large number of little hearts.

The shower was still running, but he could hear Michaela’s footsteps outside. He felt her in the doorway before he turned to look. She was standing naked, water streaming off her. Her wet hair clung around her face, sending rivulets down her shoulders. She shielded her unruly bush with mock bashfulness.

‘Starting to wonder how long I’m going to be in the shower before you get in with me,’ she said, and James, who’d never showered with a companion in his life, felt blood rushing all the way through him.

*

He swung his legs over the side of the little bed and leaned on the door handle. It felt strange to be standing up, either because of the booze or the long time lying in such a confined space. Like a sailor back on land. The corridor was narrow, the space between cabins and windows barely a space at all; again, James wondered if it was only being fat that gave him that impression. If most people even bothered commenting internally on it. He looked out of the window. The sky was mauve, the sort of darkness that looked like it would give way to grey rather than to genuine light. Through the long window, James made out a row of thin back gardens. A trampoline in one, a Wendy house in another. He thought for a second of all the people asleep in the houses, people he would not meet. Would they hear about him on the news? He wasn’t sure if standard suicides got onto the news. There must be too many of them. Sixteen a day, he’d read on a Samaritans poster. There’d be nothing else in the paper if they were all reported. It was commonplace, which was something he had reminded himself each time his nerve threatened to waver over the past few days. It was a normal thing to do.