“There didn’t seem to be any point. I was dealing with it.” She spreads her hands, her jaw set stubbornly, and I am filled with a stinging, furious resentment. I turn to stare out of the window as I fight to collect myself.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” she says quietly after a moment.

I take a deep breath and turn back to the kitchen. “No, thank you,” I say with studied politeness. She nods calmly, then bends to look in the cereal cupboard. “I thought we bought—ah, here it is.” She pulls out a packet of Special K and sets about finding a bowl and spoon. I lean against the counter and watch her, trying to let the negative emotions flow out of me. There’s a fluidity to her movement, yet every action is economical: precisely what is required and no more. The sophisticated veneer of last night’s clothes and makeup is gone. With her hair still shower-wet and her face scrubbed entirely clean, even of her habitual eyeliner, she has the skin of a child, perfect and pore-free. She could be a different person, or the same one, freshly reborn. Just looking at her makes me feel more aware of how tired I am, and of the age gap between us.

“Anyway, it was a good night,” Carrie offers into the silence, as she sits at the table. Her gray eyes are fixed on me, giving nothing away. “A nice bunch.”

“Yes.” Would I feel the same doubt as Carrie if the situation were reversed? Possibly, but that doesn’t make it any less hurtful. “Jamie’s sister was pretty wasted,” I add. Carrie’s mouth is full of cereal now; she makes an indistinct noise in response. “Did you speak to her much?”

“A bit. She seems fun.”

Oh God. I imagine Carrie inviting Fiona over. I imagine their heads bent together, their faces hidden by their hair as they shake in shared giggles. I imagine Fiona in this very kitchen, the smoke from her cigarette spiraling lazily toward the ceiling. “Really? I thought she was kind of odd. And what was it with that bloody watch beeping every half hour?”

“Oh yeah, I asked her about that, but it was at the end of the evening. I didn’t quite catch the gist of what she was saying.” She gestures with her spoon, as if it’s an extension of her hand. “Something to do with not having a grip on time.” She shrugs. “But by that point I’m not sure any of us had much of a grip on time.”

I digest that for a moment. “Jamie said she’s a bit . . . unpredictable.”

“Did he? I’m not sure they get on that well, so I wouldn’t set a lot of store in what he says. Anyway, what are you doing today?”