The Patron Saint of Stupid Women guided her back down the road and along the lane to where the bed and breakfast was. Laura had a terrible sense of direction and knew it was only the intervention of this divine being that got her there. By now her head was clearing a little; she studied the outside of the building and worked out where their room was. She tiptoed round and knocked on the window.

Fortunately Monica was a light sleeper. A tousled head appeared behind the curtains. ‘Laura! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Oh, just let me in, Monica, please!’

‘OK. Go to the front door and I’ll see what I can do.

‘You’re bloody lucky they don’t go in for burglar alarms round here,’ whispered Monica a few minutes later.

‘I feel like a burglar. Worse.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing. I don’t think. Can we talk about it in the morning?’

‘Fair enough. Get into my bed, it’s warm and you’re shivering like a jelly. I demand a blow-by-blow account in the morning though.’

Laura just wanted to get into bed and search for oblivion but Monica was firm. ‘Here,’ she said, holding a glass. ‘It’s got something in it to restore your salts. You’ll feel less awful in the morning if you drink it.’

Laura drank it but as more and more memory came back to her in Technicolor detail she felt that it wasn’t going to be a hangover that made her feel as if death was an attractive option.

‘Tea’s up!’ said Monica, cruelly loud, the following morning. She was fully dressed and made up and seemed on top form.

‘Oh God!’ Laura moaned, yawned, moaned again and then sat up and took the tea.

‘How are you feeling?’

Laura considered. ‘Better than I should, probably. Physically, anyway.’

‘I want to hear every detail later, but now we should have breakfast.’

Laura, who hadn’t felt like eating anything, did feel a bit better after a pint of orange juice, a huge Irish breakfast and several mugs of tea, and two strong painkillers. Monica hustled her into her warmest clothes, put on her own, and dragged them both off for a walk.

‘OK, so tell me everything. Was it wonderful? First times can be dodgy, but at least with a man like that he’ll know what he’s doing.’

Laura remembered this thought making its appearance in her own head sometime the previous evening.

‘Well?’ Monica was insistent. ‘You have to tell me everything. That’s the first rule of Girlfriend Law.’

‘I’ve never heard of the Girlfriend Law,’ said Laura.

‘I’ve just made it up, but you’ve still got to tell me. Don’t hold out on me.’

‘I’m not holding out. I’m just trying to remember.’

‘What? Surely you weren’t that off your face?’