I grab a towel and quickly wipe it away then hurry back to the bedroom and scour the floor, the table, the end of the bed, for a telltale wrapper. But there’s nothing. This is a nightmare. I have no recollection of having sex, let alone using protection. I run back into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Stepping underneath the hot stream of water, I scrub at my skin and my crotch, almost using up the whole bottle of shower gel. This can’t be happening, I tell myself as I step, red raw and burning hot, on to the cool tiled floor.

I need to think straight. What should I do? My first instinct is to call Lottie but that’s not an option. Okay, what would Lottie tell me to do? Go to Boots and get the morning-after pill. It had happened a couple of times before with other boyfriends when we’d got carried away in the heat of the moment and not used a condom; another time, the condom had slipped off. I’d tried going on the pill in my early twenties but it gave me such terrible migraines I had to come off it. I reasoned that condoms would be enough though I still had some accidents. But on all those occasions, I had a clear memory of having sex. I had … consented.

I’ll go to the chemist, I think as I shakily dry myself off, trying to block out the terrifying word that is rolling around my head. I’ll go to the chemist and ask for the morning-after pill. I’ll slip out before Connor wakes up and then, when I get back, we can talk about what happened.

I tiptoe back into the bedroom but as I’m pulling out the drawer to retrieve a T-shirt and leggings, I hear Connor stir behind me.

‘Morning, baby,’ he says sleepily. ‘What are you doing? It’s Saturday. Come back to bed.’

‘I was … er,’ I begin, not quite knowing how to put it. ‘Connor, what happened last night? When we got back from the club?’

‘You mean, you don’t remember?’ he says, smiling. ‘You seemed to be enjoying it.’

‘Was I?’

‘What are you talking about, Ness?’ he says. ‘You mean you really don’t remember?’

I shake my head.

‘It was amazing,’ he says, reaching out and stroking my cheek. ‘Hotter than we’ve ever been before. I think it must have been the burlesque. You kept telling me how much it had turned you on.’

All I can recall of the burlesque is a blur of colours and noise.

‘By the time we got home you were … well, I’ve never seen you like that before,’ he says, propping himself up on the pillows.

‘Connor, listen,’ I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘Did we … did we use anything?’