My eyes open on to the blank ceiling. My head feels harnessed to the pillow and, at first, I think it must be the consequence of the two glasses of Pinot Grigio I had with my dinner. There’s a hint of a migraine nudging at my temples. Then I realize that the straps hold firmly across my body. I see that the ceiling is shot across with small lights, like fireflies but electric, part of a larger body pulsating beneath me. More lights ascend, not like sparks from a fire in free upwards flight, but slowly, and I see that they are attached to tiny tendrils of coral, reaching around and above my body. I can hear these fingers creaking. They begin to close in on me as I lie on the bed, defenceless. I can’t see Ruth next to me, but I know she is there. I know that this is her, a creature expanding. Then the light becomes so intense that all I can see is red, burning darkness, and I count the pace of my own breath, slower and slower, as I run out of air.

STEAK (LEAN)

Ruth

Now

I am half an hour late for work. I just couldn’t get up this morning. The whole weekend is a blur. For the majority of it, I’ve been stuck in a sticky sleep, like a fly caught at the bottom of a honey jar. Granted, I am not a seasoned party girl, but I don’t understand why I’m still feeling so bad two days later. I really can’t remember the last time I had a hangover like this – sometimes a little headache, after three or four glasses of wine at home, but never with the added pressure of having to account for direct interaction with others. My mouth feels dry no matter how much water I drink and the stabbing pain behind my right eye is still there. I’m feeling a desperate kind of exhaustion. I have memories of the party but they are still unlinked. Little scenes with holes in the texture. The girls. Make-up. Frankenstein. Bex’s hand on my knee. Her oval nails like black apple pips. Malus domestica is the Latin name for the apple. Shellac is the upmarket beauty parlour name for a manicure. Alanna’s ear, as I struggled to push a diamanté stud into her lobe. ‘Push harder! Go on! It really won’t hurt.’ Cream shots. Then more women joining us. Dancing. A woman I didn’t know with lots of earrings, who grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘This the maid of honour? Well, kill me now, I’m Franki! Remember me, Beadle?’

Alanna emitted a high-pitched noise, ‘Oh my God, Francesca!’