A quick glance at the bedside clock told her it was eleven o’clock. It was doubtful Philip would be home yet; he liked to sneak in in the early hours and then lie to their parents the following morning that he had arrived just as they were turning in their toes. She knew differently and would listen to his slow and painful progress along the landing as he tried and often failed to avoid the creaky floorboards and piles of laundry, discarded towels or abandoned shoes that might litter his path. Her mum and dad would be asleep in bed at this time of night. She had never gone outside this late without them knowing, but this was no ordinary night and she figured therefore that ordinary rules did not apply. Her body hurt physically, as if the toxic bruises from the mental pounding she had taken had seeped into her muscles. Fear lined her gut, unsure of how things stood now between herself and Michelle. And her desire to howl in distress was as strong as it had been when she walked home earlier. She wanted to tell the world how very broken she felt. Pulling on her slippers and still in her crumpled finery, she crept down the stairs and opened the front door as quietly as she was able.

Bessie stood opposite her friend on the tiny patch of lawn. In these dire circumstances, she felt a little daft wearing an outfit that matched Michelle’s, which, despite much planning and expense, neither had been able to celebrate – there was little point in matching if you weren’t together. The temptation was to fall into her friend’s arms and say she was sorry and that nothing was as important as having her as a best friend and that, no matter what, they would find a way past this. But this was not about temptation – this was about what she had seen.

‘It’s late.’ Bessie looked up at the violet sky of the summer night. The moon lit their encounter. It was beautiful.

‘I waited for you, Bessie, but you never came,’ Michelle said.