Harry reaches out and steadies me by my arms with his big, manly hands. ‘Are you okay there?’

‘Yes. No. Oh God, Harry…’

My head rushes and I don’t know what happens because right there in the middle of the club I pass out.

20

I remember being helped into Faith’s spare bed, where, fully dressed in last night’s clothes, I’m currently unable to sleep. My eyelids twitch. My gaze darts hopelessly around the room. Repetitive snippets of events replay over and over in my head, cocaine coursing through my veins. A poo-smeared flat. Jordan. Poor, sweet Benny. Joanna calling me dull, and reminding me to dress appropriately. Liz’s article describing Faith and Poppy as saucy and effervescent. Me, ensconced in the dark nook of The Tricycle Club with the girls. The Barbie twins. Me, informing Harry I’m single. Him not exactly biting his arm off to make the most of it. Dance with me, Harry.

Passing out, and bundled into bed, but no sleep. Just these endless thoughts that will not quit.

Benny. Jordan. Poo.

Joanna. Dull. Awful.

A ridiculously pink ruffled skirt, and popping out tits.

The Tricycle Club.

Duncan the bouncer.

Macy?

Faith.

Poppy.

I was rude to them. I know I was.

The twins.

The toilets.

The confessions.

And Harry…

Who cannot possibly be as infatuated with me as I was led to believe

… or as my mother would dearly love to be true.

It is torture.

I have only myself to blame.

Faith comes in to check on me as dawn breaks through the crack in her curtains. Visibly alarmed I’m still awake, she offers me tablets – sleeping pills presumably, though I daren’t ask.

Last thing I remember, she’s patting me off to sleep.

‘Miss Gracie, wakey-wakey!’

I peel my eyes open. Poppy is sitting astride me on the bed, making what seems to be an attempt to mount me – a less worrying description might be she’s performing the sort of bouncing-all-over-the-bed wake-up I did to my parents as a young child. (I was around five-years-old when my mother put a stop to such carry-ons.)

‘Wake up!’

Uggghhh. Everything hurts.

I pretend I’m asleep.

I should have known it wouldn’t dissuade Poppy. ‘Miss Gracie, wake up. I want to show you something.’

I hit her with my pillow.

‘Yay! You’re awake.’ From a more civilised position beside my feet, she opens a newspaper. ‘Look.’

It’s pitch-black outside.

‘Poppy, what time is it?’

‘It’s just gone five o’clock.’

We were out Thursday night. Did I lose Friday? I hope that’s all the days I’ve lost. My head feels split in half.

‘Friday night?’

Checking me over carefully, as if I may be brain-damaged, Poppy confirms, ‘Yes, Friday night. You’ve been sleeping since forever, my princess.’