I notice Tracey look up as I rush past. I’m pleased she is concerned at least. I lock myself into the small toilet and collapse to the floor, breathing deeply.

I hear someone on the other side of the door. “Are you ok?” It’s Tracey.

“Yeah, thanks, just too much champagne and not enough food.”

“I’ll get you something to eat.”

There is silence again. The spinning in my head slows down and I get to my feet slowly. The changing room is wood-panelled with bench-style seats built into the walls and a small shower in the corner. I sit on one of the benches and lean my head back. Closing my eyes, I listen to the sounds of the party. The laughter, shouting, splashing water, champagne corks popping. Everyone sounds like they are having fun. Then I hear glass breaking. I should be worried about that, glass getting into the pool or on the tiles, no one cleaning it up. But I don’t have the energy. I can hear someone apologising loudly, voices raised, someone saying, “It was an accident!” It sounds like Tracey.

I open my eyes and think about going to see what’s going on, but then Tracey is back with a plate of food and a cup of water.

“What’s going on out there?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I just knocked over a bottle when I walked past. It’s fine, I’ll clean it up in a minute. Eat this first.”

I bite into a small sandwich triangle, ham and cheese wilted and warm from the humidity. There are cheese squares and tiny pickled onions on sticks, Monster Munch and little sausages on the plate, and suddenly I am ravenous. Tracey sits and watches me as I eat, her hand on my hair, stroking it like I’m a child. It is comforting. When I’m finished, I lean my head on her shoulder and we sit like that for a moment as I sip at the water. I don’t notice my hand coming to rest on her bare thigh, the skin soft and warm beneath my palm.

The door bursts open and Eloise storms in, then comes to a sudden stop.

“What the fuck is this?” she says. Her voice is sharp with icicles.

I lift my head. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you sitting there cuddling her like that?”

I sigh. “We’re not cuddling,” I say. “I wasn’t feeling well. Tracey is looking after me.”

“Oh, is she now? Looks like more than that to me. You’ve practically got your hand up her fanny.” I snatch my hand away as she turns and says with a sneer over her shoulder, “Looks like we’ve got a lesbian show going on in here.”

Faces appear around the door. I can hear someone wolf-whistling and a boy’s voice say, “Go on, give her a kiss.”