‘Neil.’ I place my foot back down on the floor, the bruises twinging at the strain in my thigh, and inwardly sigh at not getting out before I was seen, unwilling to engage in conversation when I am so unsure of the events of the previous evening. ‘Sorry, I was just . . .’

‘I didn’t know you were still here!’ Jovial, and with no hint of a hangover, Neil grins at me, and gestures towards the kitchen. ‘We wondered where you got to last night . . . end up in the spare room, did you? Come on through, Liz is in the kitchen, and I’ve got coffee and bacon on the go.’

My stomach gives another undulating roll at the thought of the greasy, salty meat. I give a small shake of my head and open my mouth to say, ‘I’m sorry, I should go,’ but Neil holds out an arm and gestures for me to go first, and despite the ache in my head, the rolling nausea in my stomach, and the underlying fear that streaks through my nerve endings thanks to my black hole memory, I have no option other than to walk across the cold, tiled floor into the kitchen. I have obviously stayed here without my hosts knowing – so who undressed me? I remove the one silver sandal that I’m wearing and pad through into the open-plan kitchen dining area, the bright sunshine that pours in through the patio doors at the back of the room making me feel even more nauseous, if that’s at all possible. My neighbour, Liz, sits at the kitchen table, sipping intermittently from a travel mug that sits on a coaster in front of her. She turns as I enter the room.

‘Look who I found.’ Neil pulls out a kitchen chair and motions to me to sit down, before walking over to the hob and flicking the gas on. He dumps more bacon in the pan and I have to swallow back the saliva that fills my mouth.

‘Rachel!’ Liz smiles and waggles her fingers in my direction. I slide into the chair next to her – she smells of bacon fat and stale coffee, and I have to hold my breath as she gets close to me. ‘How are you feeling this morning? A little worse for wear?’ She chuckles, but her face is pale and devoid of make-up, unusually for her. ‘I think we all are. Some party, eh?’

‘Yes. Some party.’ I shift uncomfortably on the kitchen chair, the hard wood of the seat pressing against my bruises.

‘Bacon sandwich?’ Neil holds out a plate to me, and I try and fail to stop myself from recoiling. ‘No New Year’s diet actually starts on New Year’s Day, does it?’