I turned back to the room and the action set off another tremor of nausea. I had nothing left to bring up, but my body wanted to heave anyway. My instinct was to dash out to the toilets again, but my legs now combined the least mobile characteristics of lead pipes and wet noodles. I managed two staggering steps, into the mock-up of the corner of a kitchen. Ahead was a sink and I slumped over it, clutching the tap, knees sagging. Not real, I told myself, not a real sink, no pipes, but my body clearly regarded it as sufficient. A belch erupted from me and something hot and vile came up into my mouth. With titanic effort I swallowed it back. The sweat on my brow broke surface tension and I felt a cold line run over my temple, coming to rest in an eyebrow. Another spasm raced through my innards and I belched again.

‘Oh God,’ I gasped. My vision swam, shining spots swarmed, and the grey started to crawl in at the edges. Might my body give out before my career did? It had not seemed possible before, but now I felt the hospital ward might be closer than the job centre. And it would be entirely my own fault, considering the cocktail I had mixed for myself today, on an almost-empty stomach. ‘Oh, God,’ I said again. ‘I deserve this.’

‘You really do,’ said the voice of God.

It was a warmer voice than I expected, almost comforting. He was above me now, blocking out the light. I turned to look into his face. It was Alexander De Chauncey.

He had stolen up beside me while I was preoccupied. It felt like a sneak attack, but I doubted he had been sneaky. My visual range had shrunk to no further than the rim of the sink, and the blood was gushing in my ears. He could have been clashing cymbals and I wouldn’t have noticed his approach. And here he was, satisfied smile across his well-upholstered face, close enough for me to smell his scent, all vanilla and woodsmoke. And he was judging me. How did he know what I deserved? He knew nothing about me. But I could not find a reply, not even a ‘fuck you’. All I did was stare at him.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ he said, and seeing my face wrinkle with incomprehension he gestured to the sink tap, which was still clutched in my hand, the only thing keeping me from slipping slowly to the floor. I was drawing strength from the cold, thick metal. ‘I saw the way you fell on them. You’ve got a great eye. Italian, made at this little family atelier just outside Turin, amazing little place.’

I didn’t say anything. All those words were known to me, but it was difficult to juice meaning from them.