‘No, thank you. Could I just have a glass of water, please?’ I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not sure I could keep the sandwich down if I ate it. My throat is still painfully dry, and I feel as though my entire body is craving a cold glass of icy water.

‘Here.’ Liz fills a glass from the water dispenser built into the fridge, her fingers leaving a trail in the condensation on the surface as she hands it to me, and as I reach out to take it from her, I get a flashback. Last night, Liz opening the door to me, a glass in her hand, the smile on her face much the same as it is now – slightly smug, a mildly boozy air about her. I feel the frosty air on my bare arms, as she opens the door and pulls me inside; warm, sweaty air enveloping me, the beat of the music – something Christmassy? An old song, perhaps – thumping through the house. The smell of cloves and woodsmoke in the air – Liz has the open fire lit, even though the house is sweltering. I shake my head to clear the image, setting the bells clanging inside again, and sip at the water.

‘Thank you . . . for letting me stay, I mean.’ I sip again at the water, as Liz pulls a chair out across the table from me and sits back down. I try not to wince at the harsh scraping noise the chair makes as she drags it across the tiles. Neil hums under his breath as he slaps bacon between two slices of bread and drops the plate in front of Liz. ‘I didn’t mean to impose.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly, you’re not imposing.’ Liz takes a bite of her bacon sandwich, before dropping a Berocca tablet into her own glass of water. She offers the packet to me and I take one, gratefully, dropping it into my glass and watching the bubbles start to erupt. ‘I didn’t realise you’d stayed to be honest; I thought you must have left with Gareth.’ Oh shit. Gareth. He’s going to be furious, I should imagine.

‘Well, thank you. For the hospitality, I mean. I don’t really remember going to bed.’ I watch her carefully, hoping that she’ll tell me who it was that must have helped me upstairs. Who bruised my arms, and my thighs, and . . . worse? And did I go willingly? Liz gives nothing away, sipping at her travel mug and still munching on her sandwich, taking each bite with relish.

‘God, I don’t think many of us do.’ She gives a huff of laughter through a mouthful of food, a stray crumb flying from her mouth and landing on her plate. It makes me feel sick. ‘Never let it be said that the Greenes don’t know how to throw a party.’