I wake from a deep, dreamless sleep. The early-morning sun streams through a gap in the curtains. I blink and turn away from the light. It feels like I’ve been asleep for years and years, curled up in the same fetal position.

I squint at the time on Ross’s clock radio: 9:27. I’ve slept right through the night. I’m still here. I struggle into a sitting position and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Fuck!

But as soon as my feet touch the floor, the memory lands like a dart behind my eyes. I fall back onto the bed, relief flooding through me. Ross’s father has died. He’s gone to Aberdeen. I can get up when I’m ready and pack properly, call a taxi to take me to the station. I’ll be home in Dovercourt by the early afternoon.

I roll onto my back and stretch out like a cat. I can’t believe I fell asleep again, not with all the drama last night. But after Ross and I came back to bed, he talked to me about his father and what kind of a man he was, what it was like for him in the days after his mother died. It was the first time he’s ever spoken to me in detail about that part of his life. It felt almost as if he was working himself up to something more, maybe even a confession, and I wanted so much to hear it. I wanted so much to understand.

But his voice was deep and low, a soothing monotone in my ears as he stroked my back gently with his fingers. I must have drifted off. My body, still tired after the seizure, and my mind, no longer fraught now that I knew I’d have the house to myself in the morning, must have taken the decision for me and switched off, allowing me to sleep deeply and recuperate.

I get up out of bed and take a long draft of water from the glass on my bedside table. Then I go into the bathroom. I ought to shower. I feel hot and sticky; grubby, too. But I make do with a quick wash instead. I know I don’t need to rush anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to stay here any longer than I need to. I can shower when I get to Mum and Dad’s.

The thought of showering in their bathroom, stepping out of the cubicle on to the tufted white bath mat and drying myself on one of their fluffy tumble-dried towels, safe in the knowledge that I’m back home, makes me weak with longing. The sooner I call that taxi, the better.