“Wouldn’t she? She hates me, hates that we are friends, hates that I’m black. She wants to hurt me. Of course she’ll pass them around. She will bring them to school tomorrow and—” She starts throwing on her clothes, anger seeping from every pore of her skin. “I need to get those photos. If I have them, she can’t use them against me. Instead, I can use them against her, make a complaint, maybe go to the police.”

This is now escalating into different territory altogether.

“She doesn’t hate you because you’re black.”

“You are so fucking naive.”

“I’ve heard her make comments, but that’s more about finding something to pick on than anything else.”

“You’re really going to try and defend her, defend any of them? God, you’re just as bad, if not worse because you can’t even see it.”

“No, I – I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say,” I say.

“You don’t know what to say? Did you think to stop her? Take the camera from her? When have you ever called her up for comments, the digs at me? Never. No, all you did was act just like her by shagging some random bloke and drinking more vodka, taking more pills, while I was being assaulted. None of it will get your parents’ attention, you know! All of this. It’s like you’re determined to self-destruct. I get that you’re hurting, but dragging me into the middle of you and Eloise isn’t fair. And standing by and watching while they do this? I’ll never forgive you.”

She can’t even look at me as she kicks her legs into her jeans.

I can feel the hot tears dripping from my chin. “I didn’t know she was going to spike your drink or take the photos. I did try to stop her when I realised! But Steph, she grabbed me.” It sounds lame – and she’s right. I should’ve done more. I should’ve called them out for all the comments that were said before, all the little digs. “Please, Tracey, you have to believe me. You’re the only real friend I have!” It feels like the ground under my feet has opened up and I am falling in.

“A friend? Really? Was I really your friend or just someone you wanted to toy with when your other friends were busy? Was it because I was exotic to you? Maybe you were in on it? How do I know you weren’t?”

I can hear the past tense, refuse to accept that our friendship may be over.

I grab onto her arm, my fingers pressing into her skin, leaving rounds of pressure. “What can I do to make you believe me, to make it up to you? Please, I’ll do anything!”