CNN, Fox, Sky News. A French business channel, a French gameshow. A movie channel showing a film through an eighties fuzz. Michael Douglas is starring. I’ve seen it before, when I was little. At my nan’s house, I think, when she used to allow me and our Kit to stay up way past our bedtime.

My clothes – damp during the meal and singsong – are now stuck to me like cling film. I peel off my t-shirt and polka-dot skirt, drop-kicking them in the general direction of my suitcase. My bra is also wet, and the straps are digging into my shoulders, so I get completely naked and decide to take a hot shower.

The water drips and dribbles for a while, eventually splattering enough to warrant a wash. I keep my fingers under the stream, waiting for the ice-cold water to warm up, but it doesn’t. I don’t actually need a hot shower, but cold won’t do. I need comfort, not a shock, and just standing here waiting is making me shiver and sober up in a way I’m not ready for. Tonight was more than just fun. It was freeing. I can’t believe I’m going to admit this – to think these words – but I felt like the old Chloe Roscoe in patches. Here and there. Not the ghost I’ve become since Jack died.

Fuck.

Since. Jack. Died.

And now all I can think about is how he’s not here and how he’s never going to be here and how he’s not at home and how he’s never going to be at home and …

My fingers are fucking freezing.

I turn the shower off and skulk back to my suitcase, pulling the cotton rag dress over my head. I’m not sober, but I’m not drunk like last night. I’m restless. When will the howling outside stop? Not the season, Justin? Come on. Calm down. Please, calm down.

SMASH!

I run to the double doors that lead onto a small balcony and peer behind the curtains into the storm. A plant is lying sideways, its terracotta pot smashed around it on the ground. The smashing noise was worse than the outcome and I allow myself to find it funny.

Is there a minibar in here?

A small fridge is hidden in the cabinet the telly is sitting on. Two cans of Saigon beer, two Cokes and two bottles of water are inside. Saigon will do fine. The fridge hasn’t been switched on though and the can is warm. I can hear the plant pot pieces scratching around outside, jiggling in the wind. I open the beer, sip. It’s better than nothing.

Interference causes Michael Douglas to fuzz and jerk about the screen.