When I looked up at him he shrugged, did this thing with his face that was almost a grin, and the utter disregard of it—the utter carelessness—made me furious.

‘How the fuck would you know?’ I asked again, spat.

‘Settle down, Nones,’ he said. ‘I just came out here to check on you. Everyone’s worried.’

‘Are they?’ I could barely see. Barely hear. ‘Are you?’ I looked right at him, the perfectly pitched eyebrows, the disgusting smirk on his face, fading slowly.

‘Nona.’ His voice changed.

‘I have a name, Dex.’ I glared at him. ‘I have a fucking name.’

I was yelling. Maybe. I could barely hear, my voice small and far away, but I had this feeling like I was probably yelling, because it was hurting my throat, because he was recoiling, because he’d stopped smirking. That was the only good thing—he’d finally stopped smirking.

‘We all have fucking names.’

I looked at him, and I hated him so much. I hated myself for letting him in. I hadn’t even wanted to. I’d just wanted to feel something. Anything. It was stupid, I’d been careless, too much. Too much everything, too much me. Wrong. Something wrong with me.

Too much.

It was all too much and I just wanted it to stop.

All of it.

I felt a tug in my stomach, a sickness, a blackness. My vision blurred, and my head dropped onto my knees as I felt a sob tear out of my throat.

My mum’s sick.

I’m sick and nobody will help me.

Somewhere, a door slammed, and when I finally managed to look up Dex was gone. I was alone—the way I had to be. I didn’t need anybody. I took a breath, another one. My heart was thundering against my ribs and I tried to slow it down before I had a heart attack.

Careful. I had to be careful.

More careful.

When I got back onto the floor Rachel was behind the bar, Holly standing on the other side. They turned to look at me. Everyone was looking at me. I felt naked, exposed.

‘Caitlin,’ Nic said, from somewhere close by. ‘Office. Now.’

I couldn’t look at him. ‘Just let me—’

‘Holly will do it.’ He paused. ‘Now.’

In the office, Nic lit a cigarette and handed it to me, then lit another for himself.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched me, smoking his too-weak cigarette.

When he finished, he stubbed it out in an ashtray and immediately reached for the pack again.

‘I’m sorry, Nic,’ I said finally.

He nodded, tapping another cigarette onto the table before putting it in his mouth.

‘I fucked up. I’m sorry.’ I put my own cigarette out, brought my hands into my lap, knitted them around each other as though to stop myself doing something stupid.