I’ve been up all night, he said. It must be— He paused here to retch, and I backed away: I have always hated to see people vomit, even the children. But he was already at the dry heaving stage, it seemed. He sat back from the toilet, his head against the wall, his long legs halfway out of the door, almost touching my feet as I held it open. The smell was intolerable now, acidic and fermented, making me put my hand over my nose.

– must be that bug you had, he finished. It’s awful. I’ve been sick about ten times.

Last year, during a particularly tedious spell of work, I had written an advice leaflet for an emetic. It had never occurred to me before that there was medicine for this. I had only ever heard the word emetic once before, in an elective literature seminar, referring to the prose style of a particular writer, a never-­ceasing stream of words.

Care must be taken, some accompanying notes to the medicine had advised me, that people did not use the drug for the wrong reasons. These reasons were eating-­disorder related, I surmised, rather than anything else. This was for girls who took laxatives and emetics, who wanted to clear themselves out, to flush themselves away.

Jake stood up, staggering slightly, holding onto the sink. I could feel the words rising through my chest, small bubbles, like something exciting, something to look forward to. Even with the smell in the bathroom, I didn’t feel sick. My head felt extraordinarily clear, my perception tingling at the edges, as after lots of coffee or exercise. I can tell him, I felt at that moment, the rising again, my mouth opening to speak.

Jake, you know the pasta we ate last night? I gave you a separate one – I – I put something in the sauce.

I would not delay, soap-­opera style: it was done. Another surge of energy, a pulsing in my fingers.

This is the first one – like we agreed? My voice was weaker now, fraying at the edges.

Jake was lifting his head from the sink, slowly. His hands were gripping its sides, his hair limp and damp across his forehead.

What? His eyes were narrowed. He breathed out a stream of acrid air, moving his head from side to side. You did what?

Shhh. The boys. I put a hand out, as though to touch him. He raised his head to look at me. I could see the emotions travelling over his face: there was something beautiful in it, like watching a shadow pass across a landscape from the window of a plane. He was repulsed, shocked, but then – the shadow moving, the shapes changed by sudden darkness – he was thinking something else. Now, I too had done something terrible. I would hate myself, wish I had never done it.

But I didn’t. Not yet.