Fiction-Lucy would never sign up to Cinder. If sex were to appear in her life, she would probably develop an ongoing sexual relationship with one of her rapists or their associates. The sympathetic Petrus, perhaps. Apparently, they understand each other. In the absence of any other male protection in her life, Petrus is all she has. The possibility of her moving on without a male presence is not even considered.

This book, I remind myself, won the Booker Prize. An entire panel of men and women read it and agreed that it was the best work of fiction published in English that year. The sky didn’t fall. Twitter didn’t explode in outrage. South Africa merely glowed with pride at another local-boy-makes-good story.

I wince as the front door opens and Moira comes back in. The whisky has relaxed me, but not enough to prevent me from reacting when someone walks into my house.

“Chips,” she says, dropping an armful of packets on the table. “Popcorn, peanuts, trail-mix. Let’s soak up some of that whisky.”

She opens one of the bags and waves it at me. Vinegar-scented oil rushes at me, prickling my nose and prodding my stomach into life. After weeks of tuna and tinned peaches, I suddenly feel hungry. I reach into the bag and start mashing handfuls of chips into my mouth.

I try to hand the bag back to Moira, but she waves it away. “No need. I have my own.”

The steady consumption of hydrogenated oil and carbohydrates sobers us both up. The salt makes us thirsty, so we drink water and that sobers us still more.

“So . . . Cinder.” Moira opens the app on my phone and frowns in concentration. She taps at the keyboard, pausing occasionally to think. Once, she picks up her tumbler and almost takes a sip, but then puts it down again. No further alcohol will be consumed until a suitable profile has been set up for me.

“What do you think of this?”

I look at what she has written.

Still healing and processing after a bad experience, but ready to meet new people. Looking for Mr. Cute and Sensitive.

“That’s better.”

“Right? I have a good feeling about this. Should I post it?”

“It’s too much information. I’ll get no swipe-rights with that bit about the bad experience. No one wants to deal with that kind of baggage.”

“Let’s just post it and see. If you get no interest, we can always delete it and start over.”

“Fine. Do it.”

And she does, which means we can start drinking again.