The hills were sludgy and rippling. I did it again, punched in the gut. God, this was so completely mortifying. I was a semi-conscious vom-machine. The least sexy thing in Scotland. I spat out the last of it, a thread of liquid spooling away from the corner of my mouth, pulled by the wind.

He was still sitting there, his hands on the steering wheel. I got back in. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would make it any better, so just swallowed, a thin burn coiling looped patterns at the back of my throat. Ginger and tea and vileness. He started the ignition again.

Our house looked like the safest place in the world, soft and warm and nestled among the palm trees. He’d blinked once, hard, when I told him the name of the cottage, before nodding.

The handbrake made a sound like Dad clicking his neck.

I stared at the windscreen. ‘I’m really sorry.’

He gazed at the driveway and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

‘Thanks.’ I put my fingers on the door handle.

He nodded. ‘Mind how you go.’

My legs had turned into rickety wooden stilts. I felt the pocket of my jacket, crushing only material and tissues. No keys. Bollocks. I knocked on the door.

As Lottie opened it, her eyes widened slightly. ‘God, Polly, what have you done to yourself?’

The jeep revved and drove away.

I pushed past her. ‘Just – don’t. Not now.’

A light like cymbals smashing together right in front of my face. I got up, my skin itching. Bathroom.

Dried spit, or sick, or both, lay in a diagonal trail across my cheek. My eyes were bloodshot and scummy. Mascara everywhere. A living, semi-breathing Jackson Pollock. Jackson Polly. I hung over the sink for a while. Nothing more came, although if I could have retched shame I would have.

Lottie turned round from her baking when I leant against the kitchen doorframe. ‘Better?’ Her hands were covered in a gooey mixture.

I nodded and swallowed dryly.

She looked at me as if I was a recipe she was disagreeing with. ‘How was the party?’

‘It was …’ I went over to her and scooped a finger of gunk from the bowl. ‘Interesting. Yeah. Are you making flapjacks?’

‘Well, if you’re not going to make us anything then I will do my worst.’

‘Needs more honey,’ I said and lurched back to my bedroom.

Lottie shouted after me. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’

Every time I thought of being out there in the dark, that bobbing light following me, I burrowed further under the duvet, the inside of my own hill, smelling of old earth and mulched sheep bones. I never wanted to see another light, or another hill.

My phone buzzed. I dragged it under the covers, opened my eyes just enough.

Fraser. U ok? x

Now he was asking. Not when there was a man threatening to mouth-rape me. What had happened up there hadn’t quite seemed real until now, until this message. A fucking kiss on there, too. I saw Rocky headbutt Fraser again. He deserved it.