The stableyard taste in his mouth suggested he’d passed out before cleaning his teeth the night before. Nausea lurked in the cobwebs at the bottom of his throat. Why did he do it? Convivial drinking with other people was at least fun while it was happening; drinking alone was nothing more nor less than self-punishment. There was an empty stillness in the flat. He glanced at his watch. After ten. God knows what time he’d fallen into bed. He didn’t want to move, but his straining bladder insisted. Being upright didn’t help the headache. In the bathroom he peed copiously, sluiced his face in water and cleaned his teeth. The mint wasn’t strong enough to swamp the other taste in his mouth. The door to Frances’s bedroom was closed. He knew she wasn’t there, but still tapped on it before entering. The room seemed almost clinically neat, the edges of the bedspread regulated into neat parallels. The whole place smelt of Frances. A strong whiff of her favourite perfume in the air suggested she might only just have left.
