‘The drinking,’ he says, his voice trembling. ‘Every night I come home from work and you’re half-cut. The recycling bin is a bloody embarrassment. Then there’s the paranoia, checking my phone, the emotional outbursts. But this, this is just the very worst. How can you sit there and accuse me of – God, I can’t even say it …’

I think back to the previous evening: the three glasses of Chianti, glass after glass of champagne at the club.

‘You were so wasted. And what you said to Richard …’

‘What did I say to Richard?’

‘Oh Christ,’ says Connor, his eyes widening. ‘You’re telling me you don’t remember telling my boss he was very attractive for an older man?’

I shake my head, and a horrid feeling of guilt rips through me. I’ve done it again. I’ve fucked up, again.

‘Bloody hell, Vanessa.’

It’s all too much. I feel my bottom lip quiver.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my head throbbing. ‘I don’t remember. I would never usually say something like that. I don’t know what’s happening to me.’

‘Hey,’ says Connor, shuffling closer to me. ‘Baby, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m going to help you.’

‘Connor, listen to me,’ I say, taking his arm. ‘I am so sorry but I swear to you I’m going to sort this. I’ll stop drinking. I know I’ve been knocking it back a lot recently and this is my wake-up call. I promise you.’

‘And the other stuff,’ he says, wiping his eyes with his dressing-gown sleeve. ‘The checking up on me? The outbursts?’

‘All of it,’ I say, putting my hand to his face. ‘I’ll stop. I can’t lose you, Connor. Tell me you won’t leave me.’

It’s my turn to cry then and as I feel him pull me to his chest, feel the warmth of his skin, I tell myself that I will be true to my word. I’ve already lost my mum and Lottie. I can’t lose Connor too.

‘I don’t know what to do, Connor,’ I say. ‘I’ve never blacked out like that before.’

‘We’re going to get through this, Vanessa,’ he says, lifting my face to his. ‘Do you hear me? I’m not giving up on you. I love you.’

‘I don’t deserve you,’ I say. ‘I really don’t.’

‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ he repeats. ‘Trust me.’

He kisses the top of my head, and as I sink into his arms, I feel wretched for ever doubting him.

19. Now

When the first light of morning arrives, filling the bedroom with a pale, silvery glow, I pick up my phone from the floor and check the time. It’s 6.45. I get out of bed and go to the window.

The common is already dotted with people, despite the early hour. I see the landlady from the Crooked Billet pub putting out deckchairs for the sun-seeking drinkers who will descend on the pub at lunchtime. A group of men and women, clad in workout gear, are practising yoga up by the copse. A big collie dog bounds in between them, almost knocking one of the women, an impossibly svelte redhead, off her feet.