Closing my eyes again I wait a moment, drawing in a ragged deep breath and letting it out slowly. I’ve never had a hangover like this before. The nausea fades, and I run my hands over my lower half again, the skin on the inside of my thighs feeling bruised and sore. I slide my hands between my legs, and my heart beat doubles as I realise the bruised, raw feeling extends to there too. Oh, God. I lean back against the cool of the pillow, eyes closed again against the watery light, trying my hardest to remember what happened last night. There’s nothing, not a single thing that I can hook my memory on, just that uncertain feeling that something happened to me last night. It’s like there’s a gaping hole in my memory, a black bottomless pit that has sucked away any recollection of the previous evening. Gareth. What about Gareth? Where is he? I have to get home. I have to see Gareth; he’ll be worried (angry?) that I didn’t come home last night.

Steeling myself, I swing my legs round and out from underneath the duvet, pressing my feet to the floor as dizziness washes over me. My mouth is dry, so dry it hurts to swallow. Spying a plastic water bottle on the floor, half-hidden under the bed, I lean over, another wave of nausea making my mouth water, and take a sip. It tastes stale and dusty, as though it has been there for a long time, but it relieves the scratchiness of my throat, squashing down the bile that sits at the back of it. Placing the bottle back down on the floor, the sleeve of my top rides up to reveal a thick, purple bruise on the underside of my bicep. I poke at it, hissing as the tender skin shrieks out at my touch, the muscle sore and delicate. I wrap my fingers around my arm and see that the bruise is a perfect thumbprint, as though someone has grabbed me roughly. Remember, Rachel.