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But I needed some help. I seized the wine bottle and topped Ted up – rude not to join him – so that by the time Ant and I climbed the stairs to bed in the pretty pink spare room, me carrying the vase of lilies precariously, I was plastered.

‘Aren't they lovely, Ant? My flowers?’ I demanded in a overly loud voice. I crossed the room, sloshing water on the carpet and setting them unsteadily on the chest of drawers, right beside a vase of roses already put there by Bella. I blinked in surprise. ‘Blimey. Looks like a bloody florist's in here. Either that or a funeral parlour!’

For some reason that struck me as terribly funny. I fumbled around the room sniggering, ‘Funeral parlour…’ foolishly to myself, knocking into furniture and leaving a trail of clothes in my wake. Ant was calmly brushing his teeth in the ensuite bathroom in his boxer shorts. I stopped in the doorway to watch him, swayed as I frowned at his back view. Not pissed, I decided. No. Really quite sober. Still. You never know. I sashayed up behind him, clasped him round his waist from behind. Then I rocked him gently and sang a little Rod Stewart in his ear. ‘Tonight's the night… s'gonna be all right…’

He laughed, disentangled himself and turned round to hold my arms.

‘D'you think?’

‘What?’ I tried to focus on his face. ‘Tonight's the night? Or, s'gonna be all right?’

He grinned. ‘I certainly agree with the latter. Not sure about the former.’

It took me a moment to remember which was which. I pouted. Pulled out the elastic on his shorts and pinged them back. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘Not sure these walls are up to it.’

‘We could be quiet!’ I hissed drunkenly in his face. ‘And anyway,’ I swayed, ‘those Victorians knew a thing or two about building. Knew how to soundproof the unlacing of their… whatsit. Strait laces. Look at bloody Brunel! Look at all those bloody viaducts!’ I waved my hand at the window as if there were a few outside, then went in for a snog, shutting my eyes. A mistake.

‘Shit,’ I gasped, rocking back abruptly on my heels. ‘Head spin.’ I clutched the offending article. ‘Nurofen, Ant. Fast.’

He turned to rummage in the bathroom cupboard which, being spare, was also bare.

‘In my bag,’ I groaned, still holding my head and staggering back to the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed.

He found some. As I glugged gratefully on the glass of water he put to my lips, gulping down the pills, I allowed myself to be laid back on the pillows. Tucked in.

‘Sleep,’ he said firmly as he straightened up. He swam before my line of vision.

‘You think?’ I murmured doubtfully. ‘Rather than sex?’

‘Definitely.’

I shut my eyes, gave it some thought. ‘OK.’ And then just before I blacked out, I whispered hoarsely, ‘I've done well though, Ant… haven't I? Been good?’

He kissed my lips. ‘You've been very good.’

The next morning I awoke in terrible, terrible pain. My head was in a much worse state than it had been the night before, and my mouth hung open on its hinges, refusing to close, severe drought having set in. I felt really extraordinarily ill. After a few minutes I managed gingerly to open my eyes. I peered at the light streaming through the thin curtains, then shut them again. Oh God. I groaned, turned over and opened them again to peer at the clock. Ten o'clock. Ten o'clock! Oh Lord, quite late. After a bit, I sat up slowly. Ant's side of the bed was empty, the covers thrown back. Were they all downstairs having breakfast? Waiting for me to appear?

I staggered to the loo, found some more Nurofen in my bag, guzzled them down. Then I got dressed, tidying up last night's clothes as I went. I had to crouch straight backed to retrieve everything, rather than bending over, to avoid head rush.

I sat down and peered in the mirror at the dressing table. Shocked myself. My face looked as if it had been punched, and my usually wavy hair was plastered to my head in a centre parting, like an ageing hippy. All I needed was a guitar. I brushed it and tried to fluff it up, but in vain. I gave up, got to my feet, and toddled out to the landing