I roll out of the bed and grope the floor, feeling his jeans, my underpants, his shirt, my dress.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I have to go,” I whisper.

“No, you don’t.”

I find the bed and give him a kiss on the cheek. “Can you get me an Uber? I don’t know this address.”

He squeezes me, kisses me. “Stay here. You don’t have to go.”

“I really do. I have to be up for work soon and my contact lenses are stuck to my eyeballs.”

“Oh. You really do.” His mobile phone casts a glow across our faces and he taps the screen. “All sorted. Four minutes.”

“Thanks.” I see a handbag-shaped lump in the corner. He grabs my arm as I move towards it, pulling me back onto the bed.

“You sure? You really could stay.”

“I’m sure.” I grin.

He sighs and gets up, towering over me, pulls on a t-shirt. I shove the bra in my bag, pat down my hair, stumble into the wall. The taxi is already waiting outside.

“Good night!” I don’t pause for a kiss, just trot down the steps and into the taxi. I slam the door shut and wave goodbye but he’s already turning back inside.


“Hi!” I’m relieved to be able to speak loudly. “How are you?!”

The driver glances in the review mirror and smirks. “Very well, thank you.” He confirms the address.

“Yep, that’s the one.” I look at the passing cars, the people waiting at bus stops, the convenience shops still open. Thank God for London.

There’s always a way home.

There’s always something to do.

There’s always someone to sleep with.


A month later I’m diagnosed with bipolar disorder.