A strategically knotted pale pink pashmina covered her neck. The house was very quiet. ‘Where’s Celeste?’ she whispered. ‘She’s staying at Amelia’s house. Amelia’s mum took her home with her straight from school, she seems very nice.’ Romilly nodded. Even that small movement hurt her head. She had spent over an hour in a hot bath, trying to scrub away the dirty feeling that clung to her like a new skin, scratching at her scalp until it hurt and lathering herself until a layer of grey scum floated on the water. She lay there long after the bath had turned tepid and could have stayed there all day, locked away with her shame and her distress, trying to make sense of what had happened and how. The hardest part was that she had no one to blame but herself. It had been a relapse of the worst possible kind. She had no memory, none after leaving the house to go and meet Sara and then waking up that morning… Oh God! Oh no! Every time she pictured the second she’d opened her eyes she wanted to vomit and her body shuddered involuntarily.
