Zadie’s test had been negative, and they had laughed about it afterwards, throwing it into the bin, covering it up with tissues because Zadie claimed it ‘wasn’t worth the stress’ of telling Max that they had had a near-miss. They had celebrated by getting drunk, because that was all they ever did. And Zadie had half joked that she was going to name Max’s first baby after herself, just as his father had named him after himself. ‘Zadie Two.’ She had smiled. ‘Men do it all the time. Why can’t I?’

So, there it was. She had been right. How far along was she? She tried to count on her fingers, but the previous weeks and months were so nebulous, running together into a mass of confusion, excitement, misery and pain. There were ways to find out, of course. She could go to the doctor. Go to the hospital. She could sit down with a calendar. Or she could wait. And hope that, when it came to it, she just knew.

Zadie

The sky was a purple-yellow colour when Zadie woke. She sat up without thinking. Her ribs screamed in objection. Looking down, she saw that she was naked. Her arms were a mess of livid bruises, as if someone had dipped a brush of purple paint in a jar of water. She stood up, almost admiring the spectrum of damage across her arms, her thighs, her neck. Her lip was crusted with blood, her eye socket swollen. She looked horrific. Chloe lay asleep in bed, her hair spread out over the pillow, her snub nose perfect in profile and her eyelashes long on her cheeks. What must it be like to be so uncomplicated? So fundamentally good?

Chloe had been such a good friend to her, and Zadie had paid her back with betrayal. She deserved everything that had happened to her. She knew Chloe would be better off without her around.

Zadie picked a pair of jeans off the floor, next to the ruined white dress, which lay in a puddle next to Chloe’s green one. What else? She needed a top. On a chair, she found a jumper which she didn’t recognize but looked like it was a boy’s. A pair of socks, probably Chloe’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered as she zipped up the jeans, a little too big, but wearable. Making the word cracked the scab on her lip. She winced.

Her handbag was in the hall, and her trainers. Everything else could stay here. Then she started walking. One foot in front of the other. What time was it? Light, but not very. After a while, she reached the village, a sleepy little place just coming to life. The station clock said it was eight a.m. The next train was mercifully soon. Only when the train started moving did she open her phone and dial.