His arms are flung out above his head and his quiff has flopped into his eyes. Sunlight is streaming into the room warming the sheets that are tangled around our legs. My first thought isn’t, oh my God, I’ve just spent the night with a fella (even though nothing like that happened), and it isn’t, oh my God, my brother’s probably going to be in the papers today, named as the Battersea Park Killer. No, my first thought is, I haven’t got any clean knickers and I haven’t even got a toothbrush. I cup my hand to my mouth to sniff my breath. Then I remember that a better way of testing for bad breath is to lick your wrist, let it dry for a minute, then if it stinks, so does your breath. So, that’s what I’m doing, licking my wrist, when Beau suddenly says, ‘What on earth are you doing, Violet?’ ‘Thought you were asleep,’ I say quickly, dropping my arm back onto the bed. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he says. ‘There’s something you know about licking wrists that I don’t, isn’t there?’ ‘Well, actually, yes,’ I say.
