‘Hello,’ Sarah said, arms open wide. She was hyped-up, like me. A few of her friends from uni were there, some therapists from work.

We were in love. Still. Were we in love?

‘Hey.’ I reached over, hugged Mel, Josh.

‘Hey, brother,’ Josh said.

Zac arrived a couple of minutes later, skin glowing, smiling. ‘Evening all.’

Another round of hugs.

Fuck, I was happy. Was it the drugs? Relief for Sarah? For me? The natural side effect of asking so many unanswerable questions?

Right on cue I felt the first cramps of a migraine, my curse whenever excitement got the better of me. My mother – miss you, Mum – had taken me to see the Les Misérables musical when I was thirteen. I’d loved it, felt my head tightening, spent the rest of the day in agony.

I didn’t like being seen to emote. Sarah could tell me our children were someone else’s, and I’d swallow the knowledge whole, tightfaced, no need for a glass of water.

I sat, asked Sarah what she wanted to drink, got up again, stood at the bar, thought about Valentino, how I, too, might end the night having anal with Sarah – wouldn’t that be nice? I’ve had a wonderful birthday, Chris, now bum me, big fella.

I placed Sarah’s espresso martini on the table, spilt some of my pale ale, sat next to Mel.

She didn’t know about Valentino. Nobody did. Except Valentino. And Sarah. And me. And – partially – Zac.

‘Are you high already?’ she said.

‘Yeah, a bit. Just a line. Zac racked them up before we left the house, just little ones. He said it was about a quarter of what he normally takes.’

‘Your eyes are huge.’

It was all Mel’s doing. She’d introduced me to Zac, to –

‘How’s Biddy?’ I said.

‘Biddy? Yeah, I don’t know, really … How come?’

‘Oh, just asking. She said she might come along tonight.’

‘Come dancing with us? Yeah … I don’t know, Chris. We haven’t spoken for a while, we’re not that close.’

‘Ah yeah, it’s all good either way.’

The conversations splintered. I spoke to Josh, asked what he’d been up to, talked about drug-resistant mental illness, had a laugh, went to the bathroom. Yeah, woah, my pupils. I was coming up for real.

When I returned, Zac was slumped in a chair a few feet from the others, his head against the wall, glasses askew.

‘You OK?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, dude, fine.’ His eyes opened slightly, he forced a white-lipped smile. ‘It’s the pizza guy. I think this is better than the stuff I usually get.’

I gave him my hand, pulled him to his feet – oh, my fucking back – led him to the door, took his cigarettes from his pocket, lit one for him, one for me.

* * *

By midnight we were in the nightclub, and I was reaching into the lights with lockjaw.