‘Mel! Are you OK?’

Bathroom door. Closed. Water running.

Now I’m frantic. I pound on the door. I call her name. Nothing.

Antonio comes staggering in from the next room, eyes half-closed in that adorable way, hair all mussy. The things I notice at a time like this. I actually do disgust myself.

‘The door is locked,’ I yell at him. ‘Do something!’

He pounds on it.

‘She’s probably just taking a shower,’ he says. ‘She does that when she gets anxious or has nightmares. What do you want me to do, break it down?’

‘Yes!’

‘This is a hotel. I can’t just—’

‘Break it down, Antonio, or I’ll call 999.’

‘I knew I was a fool to ask you for help,’ he mutters.

‘What’s the matter? Not strong enough to break it down?’

He waggles a finger at me. ‘Oh, no. You can’t trick me with your gender stereotypes, Charlie. Why don’t you break it down?’

‘Antonio, please. I’m scared. Just break it down. You know I’m weak.’

He looks at the door like it’s a bull and he’s a matador. Then he shakes his head. He can’t seem to convince even himself that he can do it.

‘How do you want me to break it down? Should I use my shoulder?’

‘I don’t know! You go to the gym five times a week. How hard can it be?’

It takes him several tries. We are both shouting her name and pounding on the door in between charges. I keep hoping she’ll open the door and Antonio will go whizzing through and this whole scene will turn into something out of a Pink Panther movie.

At last the door flies off its hinges. It shoots inwards and collides with the commode. The bathroom looks exactly the same as the one in Mel’s dream. She’s on her knees by the bath, which is full. And her face is in the water.

‘Melodie, what are you doing?’ Antonio grabs her by the shoulders, pulls her out of the water and steadies her head with one hand. Her neck is floppy. Her eyes are shut. Is she still asleep?

I slap her across the face and call her name. She chokes, coughs, retches. Pushes us both away. Vomits water on the floor.

‘I’m phoning for an ambulance,’ I say, rolling my eyes up to go for 999 on my earring, but Antonio waves his hand in front of my face, snapping his fingers to distract me.

‘No,’ he says.

‘No? Are you crazy?’

‘You don’t understand, Charlie. The media follow her around. This can’t get out. Look, she’s OK. She’s breathing. She’s waking up. It will be OK.’

Melodie is breathing in big, noisy gulps of air, punctuated by harsh coughs. He turns off the tap, pushes the sodden black locks off her face, gives her a towel. She doesn’t look frightened so much as shocked. Like she doesn’t know where she is.

Suddenly I feel knackered. I back away slowly.

‘You saw him,’ she gasps. ‘Charlie, you saw him, didn’t you? You stood up to him. Thank you.’