Max and I arrived around eleven-thirty and parked on the opposite side of the wide street. I clenched the sticky steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. Proceedings were in full swing; snatches of a Prince song and ragged outbreaks of laughter drifted over the road to where we sat smoking in my car. I saw a long-haired woman writhing in the hall. The famous Dancing Susan. People spilled from the front door onto the porch. Despite the wet weather, others gathered on the upstairs balcony. For some reason I was sickened by the sight; they reminded me of maggots thronging a carcass. ‘Do we have to go inside?’ I asked. ‘I don’t feel very well.’ ‘People need to see us here. You understand that, don’t you?’ I nodded. Max gripped my shoulder. ‘It will be alright. I promise I’ll look after you. We need to keep ourselves together for another week and then we’ll be out of here. Just think of it — we’re almost in France.’ My throat felt sour and swollen, as if a lump of vomit had congealed there.
