I want to text Alex for reassurance, have him tell me she’s going to be okay, and that I’m worrying about nothing. I can’t take much more time off work. You don’t get compassionate leave for grandparents, even if they’re the ones who brought you up. I lie staring at the ceiling in Mum’s flat, watching the hours go by on the clock, which ticks loudly on the mantelpiece, and wonder if I’ll ever fall asleep.

Alex

7th October, London

‘Morning.’

My eyes, which have been slowly and cautiously opening in the excruciatingly bright daylight, pop open in shock at the sound of a voice in my ear.

I close them again and screw my face up, because I think maybe I imagined it. But then I open them, and nope, there’s a face beside mine on the pillow. And this isn’t my pillow. It smells faintly of roses and the sunlight from the window’s coming in at the wrong angle.

Emma rolls over to her side and props herself up on one elbow, and her hair falls down in a tangle. She pulls the cover up slightly, and I realise that she’s got bare shoulders, which means it’s more than likely the rest of her is bare as well.

I rack my brains. We were in the kitchen eating chilli wrap things, and there was wine, and . . .

‘We drank the rest of the tequila. Did slammers. Don’t you remember?’ Emma says, clearly seeing my confused expression. She looks unperturbed.

‘I—’

Vague recollections of Rob and Becky having a sword fight with wooden spoons. Dancing. Music playing. It’s slowly coming back to me.

‘I feel like death,’ says Emma, cheerfully. ‘Thank God I’ve got today off. D’you fancy going out for breakfast to recover?’

I lie very still for a moment trying to piece it together. Rob juggling limes. Becky disappearing somewhere – probably to pass out due to an excess of wine and tequila. What a killer combination. I shift slightly in bed. It feels like my brain has come loose and is banging against my skull.

‘Oh God,’ I say.

‘You all right?’ Emma says.

I have a horrible moment of clarity. After Becky disappeared, Rob had tossed me the limes as he left the room, hobbling on his dodgy ankle. And Emma said, ‘If life gives you limes, drink tequila,’ and we’d finished the bottle, and . . .

For fuck’s sake. Why on earth did I let my bloody libido drag me by the scruff of the neck up the stairs and into Emma’s bedroom?

‘I’m really sorry, Em,’ I say, wriggling out of bed and grabbing my boxers and jeans, which are lying in a heap on the floor. ‘I can’t do this.’

‘Breakfast?’ She rolls over to face me, sitting up in bed and wrapping the duvet around her body. She looks like she’s just woken up after an eight-hour sleep. If it was anyone else, she’d have the decency to look hungover.