Though I remember running towards the bathroom, dress hitched, bustling behind me like Cinderella leaving the ball at midnight. Before tripping, jolting forward and hoisting up an armful of material and pushing it between my legs. You don’t know what’s round the corner in life, good or bad. And finally throwing up in your sink. The veil, a fishing net catching the vile juice. I could see your reflection in the mirror. The stench of sizzling booze triggered another heave, muffling your shouts.

‘Of course, of course you’re being sick . . . You are fucking sick.’

You were uglier than I’d ever seen you before. Mouth contorting, spit accumulating in its corners. It was surprising how much you reminded me of Dale.

Regaining my breath, I managed to talk. ‘I’m sorry, Samuel . . . Please, I’m so sorry.’

You paced behind me. Gripping your hair like you used to do to mine. Fury emanating from your pores, electrocuting me with your sharp words like a stun gun against the head of an animal awaiting slaughter. I sank into my own world, listened to Chopin. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

‘Constance. Are you even fucking listening? How the fuck did you get in? You know what, it doesn’t matter . . . You can tell the police.’

Like all animals, I wanted to survive. ‘Please, Samuel . . . don’t . . . don’t call the police . . . Just let me explain.’ I turned and placed my hand on your arm, gentle proof of how harmless I was, how sorry. You flinched as if I was a leper.

‘Explain? What’s to fucking explain? You’re in my flat . . . You’re wearing my mother’s wedding dress, you absolute lunatic.’

You were right, of course. I don’t blame you for being so angry. But your words stabbed me and I slid down the fascia of the sink unit, onto the floor. Surrounded by taffeta and lace. My face stretched, crying.

Through the blur I noticed you lift the phone, press digits, before almost instantaneously returning it to your pocket and looking at me.

‘Fuck it . . . Go on then, Constance. Explain.’

But when it came to it, I didn’t know what to say. How to articulate myself. How do you explain such a thing?

All I could muster was, ‘I’m sorry,’ as I grabbed on to the slippery-edged sink and pulled myself up, before running past you to the bedroom, where once again I tried so hard to remove the dress.

After a delay you followed me in.

Your calmness was unsettling.

You were still. Arms loose by your sides. I mirrored you. Dropped mine from behind my back. Then you spoke. Slow, measured. ‘The calls . . . the card . . . It wasn’t Fiona, was it?’ You edged nearer. ‘The car. It was nothing to do with those lads. It was all you, wasn’t it?’