I went upstairs; I had told everyone this is where Jake was, having a lie-­down. As I passed the bathroom I saw, through its unfrosted glass, the field fading into the night, barely distinguishable from the sky, a black strip running smoothly towards morning. If he was gone, I thought, I could bear it, could become as clear as this sight, moving forwards with simplicity, with poise.

In our room, the lights were off but Jake was still just visible, rolled on his side. I could tell he was awake: his breathing was inaudible, the room crackling with wake­fulness.

Oh God.

I sank onto the bed, groaning.

Let’s never have another one of those parties ever again, okay?

My voice sounded normal, calm. I knew I had said those words after other parties, on other years. Jake shifted around on the bed, still wearing his jeans and shirt, facing me. He was surprised, I imagined, to hear those words, that tone. No swearing, no accusations. Better still: I had referred to the future. Lately, the future had been banned. Our current reality was a lopsided version of mindfulness: no future, infinite present but also infinite past, filled with lies, half-­truths, a dozen versions of the same story.

Really, he said. Let’s not. Ever. I couldn’t take it any more. His head was resting on his hands; in the near darkness his skin looked completely smooth, dully luminous, like the surface of a distant planet.

I saw Mary and Pete having sex behind the shed, I told him, and we laughed. We had not laughed together for a long time. We had not even come close. Jake put his arm out, as though he was going to rest it on my shoulder. I jerked back, a large, imprecise movement after all the mulled wine, the small, scattered dinner of canapés and sweets.

No. I shivered slightly, as though shaking him off another time.

There was a long silence, me sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet only just touching the floor, Jake quiet, still lying on his side. I realized I was waiting for him to go downstairs, to make up the sofa bed. I wanted to feel the room’s emptiness again. I wanted to rest. I said nothing, heard the bed springs whining as he got up.

I saw you and Antonio in the garden, you know. He laughed, briefly. What are you doing?

The question seemed to have no answer, to have nothing to do with anything I could know, as though he had asked me the day the world would end, or whether it would rain in a month. I thought about all the eyes at the party, the way they’d looked at me. And here he was, hiding away from it all. Not even ashamed, it seemed at that moment. Safe and calm, wanting to put his hands on me.