His wedding ring hovered above my head – he was left-handed. Creative, thoughtful, but still clever enough to ace the sciences. The metal was battered and tarnished, but that was probably a sign of commitment, not carelessness. He looked like he was only a little bit older than me, thirty-five or so. He’d probably met her at medical school, nailed his colours to the mast early.

‘That’s good, Rachel. Do you know where you are?’

How had I done this? Sunk this low? I turned the shame inside out, smiled up at him.

‘Judging by your nice white coat, I’m guessing a hospital.’

I looked down at myself. Some kind of weird cotton sack clung to me like a shroud. A monitor was emitting an insistent beep that acted like a screwdriver on my eardrum. I sat up abruptly, grabbing at the plastic beaker of water on the bedside table, dizzy suddenly. Thank God it was only the one bed in this room. But then – I knew what that meant. If I was in a private room, she must already know.

‘That’s right. You’re in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Do you remember why you’re here?’

I lay back down, retreating from him. A starburst of memory, a hot flash of shame. A tight cubicle, smelling as rank as they always do when it’s long past the witching hour. Mopping the cistern with a damp piece of loo paper, leaning low over it as Rob’s hand covered my bum so tightly it felt like suction. And then?

‘It was a bit of a late one, wasn’t it?’

The doctor looked down at the manila cardboard folder he was holding. He took a theatrical pause to read the notes.

‘You could say that, Rachel. Sounds like having a bit of a late one is something of a pattern. Am I right?’

‘It was my best friend’s birthday. It got out of hand. I mean… it’s not a regular occurrence and I’m not going to get in this state again.’ I sat up, pointed to my no-doubt ravaged face, regretting immediately making him study it. ‘This kind of hangover is definitely not a lifestyle choice.’

His frustration was visible. ‘This is more than a hangover, Rachel. We had to pump your stomach. You tested positively for cocaine. It’s no exaggeration to say you could have died.’

You can make words into other words in the space between a person’s lips and your own ears. They hang between you for a few precious milliseconds, open to reinterpretation. I vaporized these ones before they had any meaning.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, deliberately plaintive. If I could make him feel sorry for me, or attracted to me – if I could make him feel anything – I’d know I was in charge. ‘I just really wanted to honour my friend, and it went too far. She’s like a sister to me.’