‘Cas?’

‘Issie.’ I pull myself on to my elbow. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’

I try to concentrate on her story. It starts well – scored with one of the ushers. But it gets muddled through her tears. Seemingly she had a passion session last night. Peppered with orgasms, blow jobs and him murmuring, ‘You are amazing.’ This morning she’d woken up to him trying to sneak out of her room. She’d asked for his number. He gave her one but it was made up. It was one digit too many.

‘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.