‘Ness, this is crazy,’ he says, leaning back in exasperation. ‘Are you having a laugh here?’

‘No,’ I say, my stomach twisting. ‘It’s just … well, I woke up and there was … you know, you on my legs and … I genuinely can’t remember having sex.’

The colour drains from his face and he sits up straight.

‘You said “Don’t stop”,’ he says, his voice shaking. ‘We were both so into it. I asked you if I should get a condom and you said not to. You told me to carry on.’

‘So I was … I was awake?’ I say, my hands trembling now. ‘I was conscious?’

‘What the fuck are you saying, Ness?’ he says, his eyes glaring. ‘Are you accusing me of –?’

‘No,’ I say, my heart thudding. ‘Of course not, I just … well, I’ve had a few accidents in the past and now I never take chances.’

‘Well, you did last night,’ says Connor, his neck reddening.

‘Okay,’ I say, trying to calm things. ‘We need to sort this out. I’ll head up to Boots and get the morning-after pill. Just to be on the safe side.’

‘There’s no need to do that,’ he says, sighing. ‘There’s no risk.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I say incredulously. ‘Of course there is.’

‘Once I realized how drunk you were I stopped,’ he says, turning to me with a wounded expression. ‘Christ, what do you take me for?’

‘But … but what about the … what was that on my legs then?’

‘I have no idea. Sweat? Jesus, Vanessa, this is insane.’

He shakes his head, then, jumping out of the bed, pulls on his dressing gown and storms out of the room.

I find him sitting on the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest.

‘Connor,’ I say gently, sitting down next to him. ‘Connor, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … it’s just I have no memory of it and –’

‘You’ve got to stop this, Vanessa,’ he says, turning to me, his eyes red and swollen. ‘I love you but I can’t take much more of this.’

‘What?’ I say, panic gripping my chest. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘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?’