I’ve seen some of them on her Facebook page. All happy and shiny and successful. Living the perfect life, according to Facebook. I used to do it, too. I had a Facebook page and if anyone looked at it they would think my life was perfect. There were no clues. Nothing to reveal that every day I wished I was dead, or that I was someone else, or someplace else. Anything but me, here, alive.

The barman lowers the light and increases the volume on the music. Dizzee Rascal is now dancing in my ears. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to sit waiting. I thought they’d be here by now.

Pouring the Coke into the vodka, I pray that I didn’t get it wrong. The Event page set up by her friend, Amy, definitely said Coppers night club. Unless there’s been a change of plan. I take a large gulp from the glass, letting the gas fizz around my mouth before swallowing. Then I open my phone and check the page again – ‘Tara’s Last Night of Freedom.’

You would think she was important getting all that attention and her own event page for a stupid hen party.

The place is beginning to fill up now. The music is getting louder, the lights dimmer. I can barely see the entrance anymore so I pull my stool down to the corner of the bar to get a better view. A few feet away, a guy seems to think I’m moving closer to him. He smiles. I smile back but I shouldn’t have because now he’s walking over.

‘Hi,’ he says in a nice, soft voice. He’s got a handsome face, dark eyes. The guy is so well groomed – his hair, his clothes, his skin. He looks like his mammy spent hours getting him ready. I’ve never really been a fan of the polished boys. I prefer the ones a bit rough-looking. The ones who don’t bother to shave, or gel their hair, or iron their T-shirt.

‘Craig,’ he says, holding out his hand. He’s gripping a bottle of beer in the other one. I don’t want to be rude but he’s blocking my view. Refusing his hand, I lift my glass and nod. Craig sees this as the not interested gesture that it is and steps back to where he came from.

There’s a crowd of girls arriving through the door now, waving their arms in the air like they think we’re all waiting on them. Some of them are wearing sashes over their shoulders. I can tell it’s a hen party but where is she? Where is Tara? My heart starts to race. I take another gulp from my glass and scrutinise the pack.