I shake myself and pull the curtains, carefully making sure they meet in the middle, without a square inch of the window left uncovered. I must get better at drawing them before it gets dark if I’m going to exhibit this ridiculous paranoia every time the sun goes down. Carrie is still on the phone, sounding so much more at ease than I ever could. I call people purely to make plans to see them; in truth, the phone makes me uncomfortable. I feel like I’m operating blind, cut off from all the additional feedback that helps me make sense of the truth that lies beneath what people say. I press play on the remote and try to reengage with the plot of the film, which isn’t entirely fixed in my head, but Carrie returns to the living room and I pause it again to ask with deliberate nonchalance, “Was that Fiona McCue?”

“Yes.” She sinks back onto the sofa, pulling her feet up under her. “Oh, she said her dad will be at the hotel leisure center tomorrow morning. He’ll be in the café around ten if you want to speak to him.”

“Oh. Well, that’s . . . that’s good of her,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks.”

Carrie looks across at me and I busy myself placing the remote on the coffee table, precisely in line with the grain of the wood. “You don’t like her, do you?” She sounds almost as if she’s speaking to herself.

I can feel the flush spreading across my cheeks. “I’ve hardly even spoken to her.”

“I know. Which makes it even more unfair that you don’t like her.”

I could try to equivocate, but she would see right through me. “It’s just . . . from what I hear, she’s a bit . . . unstable.”

Carrie snorts. “Unstable, my eye. She’s about the most grounded person I’ve ever met.” I can see she’s already gearing up to a robust defense.

“Well, maybe you haven’t got to know her properly yet.”

“What, and you have?” she challenges. I knew this would happen.

“No, of course not, but I think you’d have to accept that Jamie knows her pretty well.” Jamie’s getting to be quite the regular here. He often pops by for a coffee and a blether, as he puts it. It’s a new experience for me: an entirely nonprofessional, non-amorous friendship. My job is social—very social, in fact. Every posting comes with a ready-made gang of journalists and crew keen to hang out. It’s fun while it lasts, but nobody ever looks back. “And Jamie says—”

“Whatever he says is bollocks,” she says flatly. “I told you they don’t really get along. There’s nothing unstable about Fiona.”