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the floor, my heart beating wildly. I’d been running on the spot for ten minutes, which normally wouldn’t even make me break a sweat. I was exhausted. I heard the door open behind me. Ethan loomed over me, his face upside down.
    ‘Hi,’ I croaked.
    ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
    ‘Bloody knackered,’ I replied. I heard rather than saw him move over to sit on the edge of the bed. I stayed where I was, on the floor, one arm flung across my forehead. This was my chance. ‘Is Ethan your real name?’
    ‘Do you think I would lie to you, Grace?’
    ‘I don’t know. Maybe. It’s one of my favourite names, you know.’
    ‘Is it? I’m glad.’ He smiled.
    ‘Do you have a last name?’
    ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
    ‘You’re very confusing, you know.’
    ‘Isn’t everyone?’
    I laughed at this. ‘OK, what do you do all day then? You can’t just spend all your time cooking and doing the washing. How boring is that ? Do you cook my meals?’ I was determined to get something from him.
    He paused. ‘It’s not important.’
    I sighed. This wasn’t exactly going to plan. ‘You look tired.’ It was true. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his skin was sallow.
    ‘You shouldn’t worry about me, Grace. How is it going?’ He gestured to the desk.
    I manoeuvred myself up onto one elbow, conscious that he was getting a more than decent view of my breasts. ‘I’m not sure. It’s hard. It hurts … to think about things.’
    Ethan stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Maybe hurt isn’t always a bad thing.’ He got up and stretched, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ll leave you to it. It’s getting late.’ He closed the door behind him and I was left wondering exactly what he meant.
    It’s not getting late.
    Is it?

    After my fight with Sal, I ran all the way home. Three miles went past in a blur. The tears had dried by the time I got to the front door. I hardly slept that night. Instead I replayed the conversation in my head, again and again – trying to make sense of it. It was hopeless.
    The next day was even worse. Knowing what Sal was going through, alone. Every few minutes I looked at the clock on my phone. An hour before Sal’s appointment, I couldn’t take it any more, and called Sal’s number. Straight to voicemail. ‘Sal, it’s me. I … I don’t really know what to say. I hope it goes OK today. Last night was … I think we need to talk about it. Ring me.’
    I didn’t hear anything from Sal – that day, or the next. I knew she must have gone ahead with the abortion. There was no question about it. I felt awful that she’d had to go through it by herself, but I was so angry about what she’d said.
    I couldn’t get over the fact that Sal had clearly harboured these feelings about me for some time. What I had said to her was stupid, no doubt. But to blame me for her getting pregnant? That was a step too far. This was Sal – the most sensible, intelligent, grounded person I knew. It made no sense at all. Still, it didn’t stop me feeling like the lowest of the low for what I’d said – in the park and that night after the club. Idiotic in the extreme, but Sal knew me. I thought she knew when to take me seriously and when to just ignore me. Everything had been fine between us before the visit to the doctor, hadn’t it?
    Days and days went by – a blur of angry tears and confusion. I cut. Even after what Sal had said.
    I went a bit too deep with one of the cuts in my arm. The blood oozed out so fast I thought it would never stop. I tasted a drop. It was warm on my tongue.
    Mum knew full well something was up. She even tried talking to me. I ignored her. I was so lonely – absolutely desperate to talk to someone. But not desperate enough to talk to her.
    I briefly considered calling Sophie. I was actually a little bit annoyed with her. I thought she might have called to see how I was. After all, as far as she was concerned I could have been pregnant. I knew I was being ridiculous because