‘A pint it is, I’ll be back in a bit.’

The bar is busy and I find myself staring at the black and white photos on the walls while I wait. My eyes find the date on the frame nearest to me: 1926. The place looks exactly the same. The world keeps on spinning, repeating itself over and over until something changes, which it doesn’t because we can’t. I do the maths and realise that the faces of the dead are smiling back at me. I look away. When I’m finally served, my feet seem to stick to the ugly patterned carpet, holding me back. I negotiate my way through the crowds towards the table, a pint of beer in one hand, a pint of lemonade in the other and two packets of cheese and onion crisps between my teeth. Edward’s expression alters slightly as I sit down. I can’t interpret the look so I ignore it.

‘Cheers,’ I say, raising my glass.

‘Cheers.’

‘So what are your plans for Christmas?’

‘Working sadly. I drew the short straw and have got a run of nights from Christmas Day until New Year.’

‘Ouch.’

‘It’s OK. Staying up all night isn’t as bad as people think.’ A memory, loosened by his words, rises to the surface.

‘Do you remember my graduation?’ I ask and watch his face argue with a smile.

It’s easy for a while, almost comfortable. We talk about holidays and countries we’ve visited during the years we didn’t know one another, safely navigating around mutual memories to stories that aren’t shared. Creating a little distance, restoring order. I think we might be in safe territory and start to relax a little.

‘Are you happy?’ he asks. His hand finds a place to rest on the table that is a little too close to my own. I withdraw both my hands to the safety of my lap and ball them into conjoined fists.

‘I love my husband.’

‘That isn’t what I asked.’

‘Edward.’ I won’t see him again, this is the last goodbye. He knows it too, but still persists in asking the question.

‘Are you? Happy?’

I decide I’ll give him the answer, then I’ll finish my drink and go home.

‘No. I’m not especially “happy” right now. But that’s not because of my marriage.’

‘What then?’

‘Just life, I suppose. It’s hard to explain.’

‘Try.’

‘I’ve made mistakes and now I’m paying for them.’

Then

Friday, 23rd December 2016 – Early Evening

I wake up with a pounding headache and can’t understand where I am or what has happened to me. The last thing I remember was chatting to Edward in the pub. I sit up. The sudden movement makes the room sway as though I’m on a tiny boat in rough seas, but I’m not on a boat, I’m on a bed. The room I’m in is dark, the curtains closed. The dimly lit sight and smell of the place are foreign to me, a mix of stale belongings and sweat. I still don’t know where I am but I soon realise that I’m naked.

Time stops for just a moment while I look down at my pale white body. Every single part of myself that is usually covered, hidden away, is now exposed. Things get very loud, very quickly inside my head. The bedroom I’m in is not my own. I stare down at the unfamiliar navy-blue sheets, I hear the sound of a shower in the distance and I try to decipher the strange taste in my mouth. I look around for my clothes and see them on the floor. I wasn’t even drinking, I only had lemonade. I didn’t do anything; I wouldn’t do this.

I can’t remember.

I try to move, pull myself up from the bed. I feel as though I’m in slow motion as I attempt to stand. Again the room starts to tilt and twist around me. I am liquid mercury trapped inside a maze. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to flow in the right direction. I bend my body forward, willing it to respond to my commands, the further I bend the more I fear I will snap. I hear a man whistling somewhere in the distance, the sound diluted by the crash of water being pushed out of a power shower. I feel sick. This cannot be real. I’m not the sort of person who would do this.

I force myself to stand and I feel the ache between my legs. I don’t know whether it is real or whether I’m just imagining it. I try to shake the thoughts and the feeling and take a step closer towards the pile of clothes I recognise as my own. The room shifts again, trying to unbalance me. I look down at my bare legs and see a tattoo of blue green bruises on both my knees. Something very bad has happened.

I must try to remember.

My mind races through a catalogue of recent memories but every file is blank until I am back at the pub. I only drank lemonade, I’m sure of it. I went to the bathroom, I came back and I was going to leave soon. But then . . . nothing.

My eyes search the room again. I see a framed photo next to the bed and my body forgets how to breathe. My own younger self looks up at me, laughing at how foolish I have been. A young Edward has his arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her a little too close, although she looks as though she doesn’t mind. I remember the photo being taken. It was my graduation. A few days before I broke up with him. I didn’t want to, I had to. He’s kept it all this time. The boy in the photo has grown into a man I don’t know. A man I’m now very afraid of. And somehow I’m in his flat and my clothes are on his floor.

I don’t want to remember.

This isn’t right. I have to get out of here but I don’t even know where I am. I’ve been such a fool. I pause my self-revulsion momentarily to take in my surroundings. Everything has a look of filth about it. There are newspapers on the floor, unopened post, an empty bottle, unwashed clothes, dirty plates, an open pizza box on the carpet with some chewed bits of crust. The musty air is stifling and I can see a thick layer of dust on every surface. There’s a machine in the corner. I’m not sure what it is at first, but then I recognise its outline as an old-fashioned sunbed. None of this makes any sense.