I go back to the sofa, but I can’t sleep again. I listen to every sound. Eventually I hear lowered voices from next door, the toilet flushing, the front door opening and closing. Then footsteps pad back to the bedroom.

Stuart has the duvet pulled over his head.

‘Hey.’

‘Go away,’ he says, ‘I’m tired.’

‘We need to talk.’

‘Not now.’

‘Yes,’ I say, pulling the duvet off him and feeling sick when I see his naked body, ‘now.’

He sits up with a face like thunder.

‘What? Go on. What do you want to say to me?’

I don’t know what to say, I’m too close to tears.

‘You expect an apology or something? Well forget it.’

‘Who is Matt, exactly?’

‘What do you mean, who is Matt? You know perfectly well who Matt is.’

I don’t, actually, but I let it pass. ‘I mean, what is he to you?’

‘He’s a good friend.’

‘A fuck buddy.’

‘Have it your way.’

I sit down on the bed, and try to sound less confrontational. The sun has hit the blinds; it’s going to be a lovely day.

‘I’ve told you before, Stuart, I don’t like threesomes.’

‘Well I do.’

‘And I think it’s a bit much bringing him back here.’

‘You weren’t complaining.’

‘I was off my face.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

I lose my temper. ‘What’s the problem? I don’t like being passed around like a piece of meat. I don’t like Matt and you sniggering and nudging each other like you’ve discussed it all before. I don’t like being treated as a walking pair of tits.’

‘Oh don’t you.’

‘No I don’t.’ He’s as cold as ice.

‘So why do you spend so much time in the gym, then, pumping them up?’ He grabs my tits and squeezes them hard. They’re sore from last night, and it hurts. I push his hand away.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Yeah,’ says Stuart, pulling on a T-shirt. ‘I think I will.’

He’s dressed and out of the door in seconds.

‘Wait!’ I shout after him. ‘Don’t go like this! We need to talk.’

I hear his footsteps echoing down the stairwell, watch him striding out across the road, the sun in his hair.

‘Stuart!’

He doesn’t look back.

Seven

I am writing this in the form of a letter to myself because the diary is no longer in my hands. I packaged it up in several layers of brown paper and a lot of thick string and sent it to myself care of my parents, marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. I posted it in the village, and I will do the same with this letter. I don’t trust the post at Reville.

Things moved fast after my trip to London. Wright ambushed me the moment I got back to the camp.

‘So? When am I going to be famous? I bet their bloody mouths are watering!’

I was hung over from another night on the tiles with Stephen, followed by tearful farewells at Euston and an exhausting journey in an overcrowded Sunday train.