‘Shh, little fella, you’re all right there. Calm down. You’re not alone any more.’

The Viking was talking to the puppy, Pax realised, trying to lift her head. She was lying on the floor, halfway through the door, being greeted by the deerhound. The strange not-Swedish voice was addressing her far less sympathetically. ‘You okay down there?’

As soon as she moved, the room upended, the contents of her head falling out like a dropped handbag as she crashed around in search of the bathroom. The fragmented montage threw images of a chewed wastepaper bin, chewed mini kettle, chewed shower cap and vanity products, chewed loo seat and then…

The glasses of cheap fizz came out in a reverse countdown, New Year returning. Ten, nine, eight…

She retched and retched.

Seven… six… five… It was counting her down to unconsciousness, the tunnel vision narrowing blissfully.

She felt the hair lifted from her face, that not-very-sympathetic, not-very-Scandinavian voice telling her not to pass out.

‘Christ, I’m sorry.’ Her sleepy voice echoed around the loo bowl.

‘Don’t blaspheme. And stay awake for pity’s sake.’

‘Oh no, I’m going to be sick again.’

She thought her stomach would invert. All she wanted to do was sleep.

‘You must drink water.’ He ordered. Watter. Was he Icelandic?

Ignoring him, she curled up beside the puppy on the bathroom floor which was rocking gently, like a ship. ‘Thank you. Now go away.’

He took her firmly by both arms and pulled her upright, but she kept her eyes tight shut, terrified of blacking out. She felt a smooth edge on her lips as a plastic beaker was pressed against them, cold water splashing over her chin and onto her shirt.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded.

She managed to open one eye. Two sharply focussed apple green ones stared back, pale lashed and critical, then four eyes, six, now eight like a spider. Oh God, she was going to pass out again.

‘Have you taken anything?’

Was he accusing her of theft?

‘Sleeping pills? Drugs? Pills of any sort?’

She shook her head.

‘When did you last eat?’

She couldn’t remember, the water still running over her lips and tongue, dripping into her throat, for a moment blissfully refreshing and then splashing against reflux.

Vesuvius erupted again, this time without a moment’s warning. Unable to turn back to the loo bowl in time, she was violently sick down her front, over the stranger’s legs and the puppy. Wine, espresso martini and acid bile dripped everywhere in a thin liquid cocktail, splattered on her chin, wet through her hair. It stank. She was rotten to the core. She started to sob and apologise, fumbling to get away, sliding around in the wet mess like a contestant on a humiliating Saturday night game show involving slime tanks, inflatables and water squirters. She had to find somewhere dry to lie down.

Her good Samaritan was throwing towels over the vomit, talking to her, but she couldn’t follow what he was saying.