I felt sick—perhaps it was just the champagne sloshing about on an empty stomach. I tried to eat a breadstick, but I caught Stella’s glue-streaked eye as I took my first bite, and retched. Next thing I knew, my face was crumpling, and tea was arcing across the room, and the china mug was bouncing off the door. It didn’t even have the good grace to shatter, so I picked it up and pounded it against the wall until the handle was the largest piece left and my fingers were studded with blood.

My notebook was spattered with tea now, and the Biro didn’t want to write on wet paper, but I made it write anyway—marking the page with gouges and rips where I couldn’t mark it with ink. I scrawled all over my previous work, using every obscenity I could think of and some I made up, tossing his name into the mix without even trying to make sentences, and when I’d run out of space I started on a new page. My wrist was beginning to hurt, but I couldn’t imagine losing momentum. I’d keep going with this for ever. After I’d used up the notepad, I’d use the walls and floor and ceiling, and once they were full I’d carry on writing across my own skin.

I stopped after a dozen pages in order to cover my head with my arms and give myself up to crying.

I didn’t notice how cold I was until I’d calmed down. The damp wind sneaked into the room wherever it could—between the roof tiles, round the door, up through the floorboards—and I shivered, even after I’d wrapped the blanket round my shoulders and pulled it up to my chin. My face felt sticky and puffed up, and I wanted another mug of tea.

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed since I came upstairs to phone Tom. It might be nearly dawn by now; it might be as early as midnight. The window was still black, and the only source of light was the bulb on its frayed cord, which cast everything in stark light or shadow. I drew the notepad toward me and rested it on my knees, laying the pen on top.