THREE

‘YOU’RE ALREADY AWAKE,’ I say, pausing at the top of the stairs as Cain turns towards me from the kitchen bench. I didn’t think he’d be out of bed yet. My body feels filthy, as though the guilt of last night is a film of grime covering me head to toe but invisible to anyone but me. I’d almost slept through my alarm, leaving in a mad rush this morning with Daniel grabbing at me again for a second round. I pushed him off in my haste to get home.

Stepping out the door right as the sun was pinkening the cloudless sky, I’d found my car, changed into my ambulance uniform and stashed the bag with my dress, heels, make-up and perfume in the spare tyre well of the boot before driving home.

‘Yep, I’m up,’ Cain says now, putting the iPad he’s been looking at down on the kitchen bench. ‘How did you go last night?’

‘Oh, not great,’ I say, hoping the ambiguity is enough to end the work chat. I never ask him about what happened in Afghanistan, despite how much it still affects him, and he doesn’t ask about any traumas I might have encountered at work. He sniffs at the air. It occurs to me that I’ve not washed off the perfume. He doesn’t say anything, so I walk past him into the kitchen and fill a glass of water, take my vitamins and iron supplement. He starts the coffee machine. It filters through into an espresso cup. It’s 6.30 am. He’s always been an early riser, only now he seems to stay up later too. I can see from the dull pink stain in his eyes and the haggard look of his skin that he’s hungover. He holds the coffee beneath his nose, then turns back to me and takes it all in one mouthful.

‘It’s early,’ I say. ‘Even for you.’

He gives a tired smile. ‘What do they say about the early bird?’

‘It’s grumpy, hungover and fatigued?’

‘Sounds about right. Not that you can talk. Out there saving lives all night, you should be straight to bed. I don’t know how you do it.’

‘A coke habit,’ I joke. ‘That’s where all our money goes.’

‘Ha,’ he says. ‘Seriously, you don’t look so bad. You eaten?’