‘An old friend of mine from university. She’s making a brief visit to the UK after some time in America. She’s expecting her first baby, too.’

‘She happened to be here, in this hotel, in the bar?’

‘No. She got in touch and we planned a quick drink. She only had an hour. I went and had dinner on my own after she left, when I couldn’t wake you.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Eliza.’

‘Are you lovers?’

‘Honestly, Holly. She’s six and a half months pregnant!’

‘Pregnancy’s hardly stopped you wanting me.’

‘That’s because you’re you. I’m pleased by this new jealous side of yours, but no, I’ve never been attracted to her – Holly?!’

‘Did you see the flashing lights?’

‘You’re overtired.’

‘Did you – did you put something in my water earlier?’

‘Of course not.’ I could hear him trying to temper his response, trying not to sound too furious. ‘You’re acting mad.’

‘Don’t call me that.’ I flung his arm off, sat up as fast as I could and stumbled out of bed towards the bathroom.

I didn’t make it to the sink. I’d barely stepped through the door before yesterday’s omelette and juice spattered onto the white tiles. I was bent over, my hands on my knees, shaking so much I wasn’t sure if it was me who was moving or the floor itself. Zac came from behind and wrapped his arms around me, as if I were in labour.

When I’d finished, when there was nothing left and I was so floppy and exhausted my head seemed too heavy for my own neck, he sat me on the edge of the bath, turned on the taps, and peeled the sticky clothes from my body. He got in with me, seeming to fear I would slide under the water and drown if he didn’t. Washing the sick from my hair and my skin, washing us both everywhere.

Now
The Visit

Two years and one month later

Bath, Friday, 5 April 2019

Eliza’s house is early Victorian, and sits low on a hill on one of the most expensive streets in the city. It has to be worth several million. There is a gravelled forecourt big enough for five cars, and black iron gates that are over two metres tall. I really need to find out where all this money comes from.

The gates are locked, so I push a button above an intercom. Eliza’s voice greets me as she buzzes me in and the gates swing open. I hate being captured on film. But cameras are what people who live in houses like this insist on, so there is no avoiding them.