There was a girl in pink pajamas sitting in the dark hugging her knees and smelling of watermelon and lemons and crying and crying through the thin walls as if something might break, and R says in a text message, she is a monster, I do not know what to do, and there is nothing I can say. She tried, R says, when I ring from Wales. (She has been sleeping in my bed, and when I ring she is watering my tomato plants, and I ask, how is she, what did you mean? She is right here, R says darkly.)

I walk past her door slowly and try not to listen, and listen, and walk back again a little bit quicker. I catch A doing something similar. We communicate with fingers and faces, and a little braver for there being the two of us, knock and march into the darkness.

She says she hates everyone, and everything, and cries. She is very hot when I rub her back, and I decide maybe it is inappropriate. But then when I run out of useful words, I take up the back-rubbing again. A is firm and forceful and still friendly, and says words like GP and counsellor. I want to cry. She says, but I deserve it, I deserve it, and sobs, and I remember outloud feeling the same and look now! (It still amazes me.) I wonder, now that I am sitting in the dark with her and A, how I will ever get out. We offer tea and films and food and books. She wants nothing, she wants to die, so I tell her, adopting A’s firmness, to sleep. Tomorrow, I say, you will still feel bad but maybe a little bit less, in the morning. Yeah, for ten seconds, she says bitterly. Don’t bother, she mutters when A says she will see her tomorrow.

Everything now is silent.

You say, I have been drinking D’s port. It didn’t feel like he wanted me there. I was not entertaining enough. I watched the worst film ever.

I tell you about the crying through the walls. You misunderstand, but I don’t correct you because I remember you lying in bed with the curtains drawn and your face buried in a slightly sandy, salty pillow. I am miserable, you said, I am so miserable, I want to do nothing forever. (I brought you your book back from the real world and offered tea and kissed your face, and reminded myself of the ineffectual affections of children, or puppies).

You tell me now with port-tinged words that you will never run away like the ex of the girl next door. Even, you say, even if you are miserable and angry for a hundred days in a row.