“That’s fallacious thinking, Lucy. There is no better or worse in this case. There are just individuals and their different responses to trauma. I don’t know why you feel such a need to position yourself in competition with other rape survivors.”

“Victims.”

“Survivors is the word I choose when I’m the one who is speaking. When you are the one speaking, you’re free to use the word ‘victims.’”

There is a distinct snap to her tone, so I pour us more whisky. This girl needs to calm down.

“Getting back to sex . . .”

“Yes, getting back to sex. The fact that you’re fantasising at all tells me you’re ready to get back in the saddle.”

“Of the sex horse.”

“Precisely. You need to sign up to Cinder.”

“How do you know I don’t already have an account?”

“Do you?”

“No. But that’s not the point. I could’ve had one. You assumed I didn’t.”

“Jesus, Lucy. Stop being fucking irritating. The first thing we’re going to put on your profile is that you’re mute. That way you won’t be tempted to talk your partners to death. You can just have sex with them. Look at me!”

I glance up to find her taking multiple pictures of my face with her phone.

“Hey, wait. Let me just . . .”

“Put your hand down.”

“But my hair! I’m not wearing makeup.”

“Doesn’t matter. These are good. Look.”

She hands me her phone, and I flip through the dozen or so images she has taken. Surprisingly, they are not bad at all. The tight bun I’ve taken to wearing every day has come loose. Strands of hair have fallen around my face, framing it in a fuzzy halo. The whisky has brightened my eyes and added a flush to my cheeks and lips. I don’t look like the pale, pinched creature I see in the mirror every morning. The shapeless sweater I’m wearing has slipped down to reveal one shoulder. The glass of whisky I’m holding appears in some of the shots, tilted at a rakish angle.

I don’t look like Lucy the Rape Victim. I look louche and fuckable.

“I look hot,” I say in wonder.

“You do. Very Cinder-y. You’re going to get a lot of swipe-rights. We could probably get someone over here this evening.”

I am just drunk enough not to be completely horrified by this thought.

“What should I put on your profile?”

I wave my tumbler in the air. “Oh, you know. The usual crap. Likes long walks on the beach. Snuggling in front of log fires. Open-minded.”

“That’s code for being into anal.”

“Really? Okay, make it broad-minded, then.”

“That means you swing both ways.”

“All right, nothing about my mind. Walks on the beach. Open fires. Sipping red wine. Theatre and opera.”

“You sound like you’re about forty-five years old.”

“Fine. You write it then.”