‘What are you having to drink?’ Jeff shouts over the riffs of blues guitar, breaking in on my worries and forcing me to enjoy myself.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, scanning the selection of bottles on display. I don’t think Jeff appreciates my indecisiveness; he’s shaking his head, tapping his fingers. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

Which leaves me drinking some sort of bourbon with lime, and boy, is it potent.

‘What do you think?’ he says, slipping up onto the stool beside me.

‘It’s strong.’

‘It’s supposed to be strong.’

Jeff turns to watch the band. The heat of the bourbon snakes through my body, making me relax, feel good. I’ll take it easy though, maybe have just the one or two, because I need my wits about me for tomorrow.

The following morning, I wake feeling like a baby being pulled with forceps from the womb. Ouch. My head is caving in. Oh, the pain.

Dragging myself into a sitting position, I glance around the room. Jeff is sprawled out, fully dressed, his leather jacket keeping him warm on the bed opposite. Well, that’s something; at least I didn’t hook up with him. I hope. My memories of last night are keeping Mom’s memories company, floating out there somewhere in the solar system. We moved from bar to bar, from drink to drink. Most of it bourbon. Some of it poison. I think I fell at one point. Or was that Jeff? One of us fell, I know that. Someone must have been watching over us to get us back safely into the convivial beds of the Blues Bay Inn. That’s one blessing used up.

Where’s my phone? Shit, I hope I didn’t lose it. Jumping out of bed, I pat my jacket and jeans, but there’s no sign of it. I search under the bed, still no phone. In the bathroom – a small dark room with a cistern that requires the pulling of a rope, its mismatched wallpaper peeling off the walls – I see it. It’s on the floor by the toilet. Sighing with relief I bend down to pick it up when my nose is assaulted by the putrid smell of vomit. I’m afraid to look, I know what’s in there. I must have puked for liberty last night. Grabbing the rope, I pull, expecting the toilet to flush, but no, it’s not that easy. There were instructions handed out when we got the room but I didn’t bother listening. Christ, how will I flush it before Jeff sees? I grab the rope again, this time pulling on it quicker. Still no flush. Out in the bedroom I hear Jeff waking up.

‘Oh Christ,’ he groans.

I stay silent, wondering what to do.

‘Are you there, Becca? That was some session.’

I pull on the rope again but only a gurgle of water drops into the bowl.