As she stared at the ceiling, eyes gummy with slept-in mascara, she became aware of a roll-call of further physical complaints. Her mouth was sour, and heartburn roared in her throat. Her muscles were sore, and she had a real bruiser of a headache: a dull, thudding twinge burrowing deep into her skull. Sitting up very slowly and supporting herself gingerly on her elbows, she took a swig from the glass of water next to her bed, which turned out to be a tepid yet potent vodka tonic. Gagging, she spat the liquid back into the glass and wiped her mouth with her hand. She rubbed one eye with a balled fist, and struggled to drag a few of the relevant details from her dehydrated brain. She could remember getting the bus home from work drinks and – ah yes – getting off a stop early to go to the corner shop for a 35cl bottle of vodka. Beside the bed, her laptop lay on the floor, its shell half closed, as if cowering in fear. She edged the lid open with her exposed big toe and jabbed at the trackpad. The screen lit up. It was paused on a YouTube tap-dancing tutorial.

She lay back on the mattress. Her duvet was slumped against the wall alongside her bed, the old clothes that doubled as pyjamas tangled inside. Sighing, she yanked at the pink tracksuit bottoms, her worn grey T-shirt and a pair of odd socks coming with them. Wincing as a bolt of pain coursed through her left temple, she wriggled out of yesterday’s work clothes, tossed them off the end of the bed after the boot, and put the pyjamas on. They could definitely do with a wash. As could her hair: its long, dark brown lengths hung in greasy sections.

She started again: her things! She must have had things. Phone? It wasn’t on the bedside table, and Ellen was about to panic until she realized it was, in fact, on the floor beside the bed, lying face down but – yes! – completely intact. She jabbed at the side button and the screen lit up: a string of WhatsApps from Kayleigh; an email from a fast-fashion e-tailer whose website she’d sworn never to visit again, advertising a limited-time ‘up to 75 per cent off’ sale; three responses to her Instagram Story (oh God). She opened the phone’s front-facing camera and squinted into it. Mascara crumbled along her eyelids and there was a pustule of a spot erupting on her chin. She pocketed the phone and took another deep sigh.