‘I know where you could go,’ Georgie interrupted sharply. ‘Cousin Claire’s. She’s down on Hamilton Drive – a huge place, obviously, she’s absolutely loaded with that job of hers – anyway, Mum told me last week that she’s got a spare room going. I’m sure she’d give it to you for mates' rates.’

Paddy snorted. ‘Sorry. Just Claire. Mates.’

Anya, in turn, looked at her sister coldly, and drew herself up in what she hoped was a dignified manner, despite the snot and the soggy knitwear.

‘I am not going to live with Claire. I’d rather move back to Renfrew Street.’

Renfrew Street was where she and Paddy had lived in their third year of university, in a flat which had, against the odds, infestations of rats, slugs and black mould. The building had later been condemned.

‘Right,’ Georgie said, soothingly. ‘Of course not. Ignore me.’

Anya had opened her mouth indignantly to add something else, but Paddy got there first. ‘Let’s get you another drink,’ he intervened, with the tone of a man practised at defusing volatile situations. ‘Another gin and tonic?’

Anya nodded miserably.

They’d stayed in the living room for hours. After it became clear that Anya was up to little more than quietly crying or muttering, ‘I can’t believe he’s done this’, Paddy had stuck the telly on and he and Georgie had pantomimed enthusiasm for a trashy reality TV show about people who worked on cruise ships. Their attitude was, sadly, not infectious: Anya had felt more, not less, wretched. Perhaps she’d never laugh again.

Eventually, at around midnight, Georgie had clapped her hands together, with an air of finality.

‘OK. Shall we go to bed?’

Anya continued to stare mournfully in the direction of the curtains.

‘Shotgun,’ Paddy yelped.

‘What for?’ Georgie asked.

‘The bed. Obviously.’

Georgie rolled her eyes.

‘Fine. I’ll take the sofa.’

Paddy stood up, wobbling, and gripped the top of the armchair. ‘God, I’m more pissed than I thought,’ he slurred lightly, and stretched out a hand towards Anya. ‘Right. Come on, you.’

She raised her hand weakly.

‘Oh get up. Come on.’ A mischievous grin. ‘You’re too heavy for me to lift anyway.’

Anya gave him another weak smile and, with some effort, propelled herself from the sofa and shuffled to hers and Connor’s bedroom. Well, not theirs any more.

After using her toothbrush – ‘you don’t mind, do you?’ he’d said, once it was already hanging out of his mouth – Paddy had fallen asleep, virtually straight away, sprawled on his back, his chest rising and falling. As he snuffled lightly, Anya had stared at the ceiling, cast by the light of the streetlamp outside, gripping the mattress with one hand, trying not to succumb to her urgent panic.