It was the early hours of the morning now, and I had to go to school today. I had to pick up my grades, work really, really hard so I had a chance of getting into a university. Uni life cost money, but scholarships didn’t. And if anyone needed a scholarship, it was me. If anyone deserved a scholarship, it was me.

I washed my school uniform and draped it over a radiator. I checked the gas meter: it had fifty pence in it, which should be just enough to dry my clothes. In the meantime, I filled a bowl with bleach and water and returned to my mother’s bedroom.

I scrubbed at the carpet, the pungent stench of faeces mixed with bleach making my eyes water. The chemicals turned the carpet white, but I didn’t care. I liked it: a single clean spot in an otherwise rotten environment.

The work became soothing, mechanical, and in my mind I dreamed of Cambridge, of Durham, Leeds or Oxford. I didn’t know what they looked like, or what subject I would study there, I just knew I needed to get to one of those places.

She slumbered on, happy in her heroin dreams while I cleaned her shit from the carpet.

I scoured and scrubbed, focused now, no longer trying to save her, no longer wasting my time trying to change her. I just needed to escape.

It was all about me now, and the future I deserved.

Chapter 17

In the Expedition Suite, Paula paced back and forth, clutching the two condoms in her sweaty palms.

He was intending to use them. They didn’t use them, she was on the pill. Well, she wasn’t, she remembered, a pang of guilt pulsing through her. She had flushed them down the toilet, hadn’t she? Determined to get a head start on the baby that he continuously stalled on.

But as far as he knew, she was on the pill, which was laughable anyway, considering they hadn’t so much as had a cuddle on this goddam holiday.

She needed to confront him, but she was terrified. What if he said it was over?

On the table, the bottle of vodka caught her eye. Unmoved and untouched since that night. She reached for it now, spinning off the cap, putting the bottle to her lips and swallowing down mouthful after mouthful until her throat burned and her eyes stung.

She slammed the bottle down, gasping and shivering despite the warmth of the room.

‘Can you be on your own?’ she asked her reflection in the mirror.

The woman who stared back shook her head.

No, you’re not cut out for it. You worked too damn hard for this life that you now lead. You can’t do without it.

‘Maybe I can,’ she whispered, with all the defiance she could muster.