Griff had a flat on the tenth floor of an art deco building in the fashionable district of West Chelsea. Eleanor believed she was humming a tune – ‘Top of the World’? – as she let herself in with the key Griff had given her while they had still been on good terms. She stood in the hall, admiring the wonderful matt red walls painted with Muslim-style arches supported by slender columns of dull gold – Griff had always had such good taste. She called out Griff’s name. Her hands felt a bit sticky, so she went to the bathroom to wash them -

‘Sticky,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s so hard to keep the line between past and present.’

The next moment she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out. A flashback – she’d had a flashback! She had seen it all again. The redness. The stickiness. You mustn’t do it, the doctor had told her.

‘It is at that point that my life stops and the nightmare takes over,’ Eleanor said, her voice soft and hushed as if she were talking in church. ‘I haven’t been the same since.’

The face that stared back at her from the mirror these days was a face she no longer recognized as her own. (She had never been a great beauty, but she had been attractive in an unconventional kind of way. Griff always said she had the face of an expensive cat.) Her skin was not too lined, but it was shockingly sallow and it had a ‘battered’ appearance. The despoiling power of grief! Eleanor spent ages making herself up and the effect was frequently disconcerting. Her eyes had lost their lustre; they looked empty and dull. Her mind kept getting into binds. She blamed the medication she had been prescribed for that – anti-depressants, stimulants, sleeping pills, painkillers, energy-boosters and she didn’t know what else. She was far from sure they did her any good but she continued taking them in bucketfuls. Sans souci, but I need to get my mouth round the Xanax – it helps me with my panics -