‘Not for me,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll have some later, when we’re dancing. Listen, thanks, Zac, I’m blown to pieces, it’s just so generous of you.’ She went into the bathroom, closed the door, flicked on the hairdryer.

Zac shook the bag of crystals, smiled. ‘Chris?’

* * *

In the Uber it struck me I was already coming up. Zac was up front ignoring the driver; I was sitting in the back, with Sarah, with, oh, rushes … The tingling sensation of the methylene – the methylenedio … fuck it. I felt great, but crapping it to be on Class As for the first time as a parent, but comforted by the chemtrails of Sarah’s hairspray, her perfume, but bloody fucking furious with Sarah generally, but, nah, I’d bash my bollocks backwards for her body – washed, unwashed, it didn’t matter … Actually, unwashed would be better – three days, four – but, overall, yeah, she really suited her new black coat, the scarf I’d given her …

We stopped at the lights. Sarah turned to look at me, nodded, looked back out her window.

Her red lips, coal eyes, dark hair. The fact she could do a Rubik’s Cube in under a minute. Her kindness and compassion – I loved those, wished she’d direct them my way once or twice a year. How she was with hula hoops … keeping them going, three at a time, flicking them up onto her neck, hips bending.

I was getting hard, had to think of something else.

Zac got out of the Uber first and strolled off to buy cigarettes, waving like a svelte cherub. But he was a demon on Tinder, seemed to score whenever he wanted.

‘He’ll probably pull on the way to the 7-Eleven,’ I said, getting out of the car and adjusting my semi, a rapid nudge.

‘Yeah, I know,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s definitely got something, I don’t know, something …’

‘Exotic’ was the word she was looking for – that was Sarah’s catnip. Nikau from New Zealand had it in spades. His seductive eyes, Polynesian skin. His kisses, my god, his kisses.

But I was exotic too. Ask anyone from India, China, Sub-Saharan Africa. A pale-skinned, mousey-haired man from Australia? Oh yes, to them I was exotic as fuck.

I followed her down the alleyway, saw happy people in winter coats smoking and drinking beer outside bars and restaurants, watched Sarah from behind, a woman in the world. I fucking loved drugs.

I did. I loved drugs and the fact Sarah had been fucking a DJ – not that it needed to be a DJ … I had nothing against non-DJs. Farmers. Welders. Firemen. IT consultants. Charity workers.

The door was heavy; I helped Sarah open it. The bar’s interior was kitsch, red and noisy. Candles and vintage posters. Plush chairs and heavy mirrors. Pop music and noisy chatter. Our friends were in the corner, sitting round a table, hadn’t seen us.