She is hot and terribly thirsty. She soon sees why: Last night she must have gone to sleep in her clothes. She is lying crossways over the mattress, and her pillow has somehow migrated south to the space between her legs. She sits and curses, pulling her cardigan off over her head, leaving only her jersey and her knickers on, stumbles to her feet and out into the corridor. Doreen’s door is ajar. She pauses outside and listens. Silence. She didn’t hear her come home last night; she must have spent the night with the man. They’ll be getting married before long; she can see it now. In the unlit kitchen the taps whine in protest before giving up and shuddering forth water. She fills a glass and drinks it greedily down, takes the kettle from the stove, fills it, and puts it on the range, then pulls the curtains aside so she can see the sky. There’s an almost full moon ahead, shaded very lightly away at the top, hanging over the clustered chimney stacks that march east toward Camden Town.
