Stuart Brandon Pierce, the World’s Best Mixologist, is fucking me from behind. I can feel his perfect abs pushing into the small of my back. Who takes their shirt off to have sex in a toilet? But then you would, wouldn’t you, if you had abs like that. Maybe I took it off him myself. I can’t remember, but I suppose I would’ve wanted to. Although wait. Was he wearing one? He was shirtless at one point in the evening – but I think I remember him wearing a hoodie when we stepped out of the building. My memories are all out of order since the Blue Volcano. That’s the one he stirred into a tall-necked glass bottle, the sugar spoon plunging in and out of the Curaçao. Except now I have come to, and we are here and he is fucking me. A bright shard of pain cuts into my right temple and all the details in the room are hurting. I’m thinking of nothing but the practicalities of the act itself. I spread my legs a little to achieve better balance. One of the white tiles in front of me is cracked and the crevices have been filled in with whiter silicone. I can feel the latex of the condom chafing against my skin, which means he is wearing one. I’ll be sore tomorrow, but it’s better than the other option. Of course Stuart Brandon Pierce uses protection. On her second or third Brandy Alexander, Mona turned to me and whispered, ‘Bloody hell, there’s enough cream in this to kill one of our oldies.’ Then, to him, she said, ‘Boy, how are your sugar levels coping?’ It was supposed to be an in-joke between us and not something he was expected to have an answer for or even enough context to figure it out, but he became very sombre. The man must have a serious customer service complex.

He looked Mona right in the eyes and said, ‘I don’t drink on the job.’ He said he gets his blood washed once a month to get rid of the toxins. What did he call it? Hemotherapy. He tried to explain the medical process and then remembered he was talking to nurses.

‘It sounds like unorthodox medical practice,’ I said. The girls laughed.

Alanna pinched the side of my arse. ‘Ruth! So sassy!’

This memory is quite clear. Then there are bits that I can’t remember. Some holes. Some dancing. The feeling that Alanna was both proud of and irritated by my behaviour. It made her harder to approach, but not in a way that was altogether bad; a little like a thread tensing up between us.