Once dressed, the idea of leaving the relative safety of the bedroom doesn’t fill me with joy. I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side. The apartment feels empty, but I still spend some time listening at the door before deciding to risk it. I open the door as quietly as I can, which takes more effort than it should, but I can’t help the delay in communication between my brain and my limbs.

Peeking around, I can’t see any trace of people; there is no movement, there is no noise. I can, however, see the remnants of the burritos, which look even less appetizing now than they did last night. I’ll take those with me. I might have messed everything up with Peter, but leaving him that cold, globular mess to clean up is a step too far.

I wander around, making my way slowly to the kitchen, and come across his gallery wall.

I hadn’t really looked at it before, but I do now. And right there, slightly up and left from the centre, is a picture of the two of us. It’s a picture I know well; I have it Blu-Tacked above the accessories station in my bedroom. It’s a nice photo. We look happy. We also look cold. From memory, this was taken at the end of the first term at uni, when all of our essays were written and all of our classes had finished. Of course we were happy then, we didn’t have a care in the world. And I hadn’t just ballsed up our friendship.

I have to get out before he comes back from wherever he’s escaped to. I took advantage of him and his kindness, and the idea of him trying to tell me it’s OK when I’ve made a prize arse out of myself is too much.

I grab a pen and hover over a notepad of his.

Sorry I fucked everything up. It won’t happen again. Bea x

Doesn’t quite cover it.

I drop the pen, crumple up the note and run away.

CHAPTER 37

By the time Monday rears its ugly head, I’m technically sober, but still haven’t been able to shake the hangover guilt. And all I can ask myself is whether it’s acceptable to ghost one of your best friends who you had drunken sex with until they move away to the other side of the world.

I don’t know the answer, so I’m slowly working my way around the office with some very bald tinsel. Everyone around me seems determined to be full of festive cheer, but I know that in reality we are all facing a month of work deadlines, poor diets, and parties every night. All in order to be able to take off that precious week between Christmas and New Year when nobody knows what day it is.

It’s all too much. I reach for the inflatable Santa.

‘Bea, can you come in here please?’

I didn’t think bosses were allowed to shout at assistants any more.