‘He called me Zoë,’ she wails. It’s true Zoë isn’t generally the accepted shortening of Isabelle, however familiar the parties involved. ‘How could he forget my name?’

‘I don’t know, honey. I really don’t. What’s your room number?’ I want to stroke her hair, hunt a tissue from my handbag, blow her nose and pour a substantial G&T. I want to make her better. I hurriedly climb out of bed. Momentarily noting the slight strain in my groin. I turn and have a last wistful look at big boy. I wouldn’t have minded a bit of early morning naughtiness. But it is out of the question. Issie needs me. I don’t even have time to wash off the sperm and smell of rubber.

‘Hey big—’ I stop myself. ‘Hey.’ I shake him gently. He opens his eyes and tries to pull me back into bed.

‘What’s the rush?’ he asks with a lazy grin. I manoeuvre away from all his hands, pull a jumper on and throw his shirt at him.

‘My friend called. I’m going round to her room.’

‘I’ll wait for you,’ he offers.

‘No, that would be’ – I play with the idea of saying tedious and opt for the more polite approach – ‘too kind but unnecessary. She’s very upset; I might be gone all morning. All day.’

‘Should I leave you my card?’

‘Yes, great. Do that.’ I kiss him on his forehead and feel a bit like his mother. How young this guy looks in the daylight. Of course I have no intention of calling him, but I’d like to have his name. I keep immaculate mental records in these matters.

Issie opens the door; she’s wrapped in a sheet.

‘Oh Issie.’ I hug her. Fighting down the swell of irritation that washes over me when I see her tear-stained face. I’m annoyed at him for doing it to her. I’m annoyed at her for doing this to herself. ‘Have you called Josh?’