Cover

Dedication

For Cheryl.

Epigraph

But of all these friends and lovers,

There is no one compares with you.

— In My Life, John Lennon & Paul McCartney

PROLOGUE

Three months earlier

‘YES!’ I say to Jack.

Perhaps too enthusiastically.

We’re three days into our first holiday together. Beside a chaotic dual carriageway, an old lady lays out pop-up gift cards – intricately handmade and just thirty baht each – on the entrance steps to a modern shopping mall. The mall towers above us, LED-screen advertisements for international brands beckoning us to come inside. Jack and I gaze at one particular familiar logo. There we stand, stationary, as thousands move frantically around us. We’re caught in a time lapse. The hot sun scorches through hazy white clouds. I haven’t even held Jack’s hand today; I’m just too hot and bloated. My pounding head and racing heart is a constant reminder that we hit it too hard, and now our bender is laughing back at us and yelling, ‘I told you so!’

It’s safe to say that Bangkok’s intense speed has knocked us sideways.

‘Yes,’ I repeat. ‘Please.’

‘You sure?’ Jack asks. ‘I mean, we’re on the other side of the world and I don’t want you to think I’m not very cultured—’

‘I’m sure,’ I snap, before he talks us out of it.

‘Really, Chloe?’

‘YES!’

The golden arches lure us in. We order a feast. As we eat, we comment on how immaculate the restaurant is, how piping hot the fries are, how although it’s McDonald’s, it somehow just tastes better here than it does at home. Yeah, that’s how hungover we are. I finish my meal by scooping up a fallen droplet of Big Mac sauce with my finger. Jack sips the dregs of his Coke like a child, releasing a burp for his grand finale.

‘S’cuse me,’ he says.

‘We’re disgusting,’ I say.

He’s laughing at me, and I know why; my Liverpool accent has come out in full force, as it does when I’m tired – or in this case, hanging. Mocking me, he scrunches up his face, and, making his voice high-pitched, repeats the word ‘disgusting’.

It’s a terrible – inaccurate – impression. I narrow my eyes.

‘Feel better?’ he asks, in his own voice. He calls it ‘Home Counties’. I call it posh.

‘So much better.’