There was no response. Not that I expected one: the TV blasted so loudly that even the excellent of hearing would struggle.

‘Edward, it’s only me . . . No wonder you’re going bloody deaf.’ I passed his bedroom. The bed was unmade. ‘Edward, it’s me.’

Then I stopped. Stayed still.

Because I knew this feeling.

The hallway distorted. Not due to alcohol.

I was at the bottom of the stairs at home. The TV playing the This Morning theme tune. The drip, drip, drip.

I started up again. Continued towards the lounge. Peered in. His chair was empty. The door creaked as I pushed the crack wider. A suited man stood in front of a picture-perfect snow scene that filled the screen. ‘More snow on its way, with low pressure bringing easterly winds . . .’ I focused on him as he pointed to areas on a map. Because I knew he was there, you see. Edward. Slumped on the floor like a rag doll. But I couldn’t look. Couldn’t.

I steadied myself by holding on to the door, heaved.

My immediate thought was to run away. Bail. Let someone else deal with it. I’ve never admitted that before. Not even to Dr Franco.

But we’ll never know if I truly was that much of a despicable person, because before I could make that decision, I noticed from my peripheral vision he was moving.

I opened the door fully, dared to look. He was breathing, albeit shallow and laboured, and I shut my eyes and thanked God.

‘What’s happened?’ I ran over, intending to help him up. Presuming he’d fallen and that was the extent of the problem. But as I crouched on Poor Tiger next to him, his face ashen, clammy, a splat of vomit between his legs, I grabbed the phone out of his hand and pressed for a dialling tone that never sounded.

‘For fuck’s sake, why isn’t it charged?’ I scrambled in my bag for my phone, my hands uncontrollable. ‘I’ve told you you’ve got to charge it. This is why . . . This is bloody why, Edward . . . Ambulance, please . . . I’m sorry for shouting at you, Edward. I’m so sorry . . . Hello, yes . . . I think my friend’s having a heart attack.’

It may as well have been the operator who dealt with Mum. She employed the identical phoney serene tones, asked practical questions to which I didn’t know the answers.

‘He’s still alive,’ I put forth unprompted.

‘Good. You’re doing great, Constance.’ The same lies.

She asked if he had any aspirin. When I relayed the question to Edward, he lifted his hand and quietly squeezed out the word ‘bed’.

Reluctant to leave him, I ran to the bedroom, searched through copious shit. Throwing things on the floor, opening drawers like a desperate burglar, until thank God I found a bottle in his bedside cabinet, then was furious at myself for not looking there first.