I get up. There comes a point where lying in the darkness becomes unbearable, and very suddenly, that is precisely where I am. I tiptoe to the en suite, passing Deb and Addie in the double bed, two indistinct, quiet shapes. The Gilbert sisters, as inseparable as ever. I used to think Marcus and I were just like them.
There’s not much to do once I’ve been to the loo – normally if I can’t sleep then I wander about, maybe read something, even write. But there’s nowhere to go here, except the car park outside, and I am one of the few members of my friendship group who is not quite eccentric enough to roam around a Budget Travel car park in my pyjamas.
Instead I look at myself in the mirror above the sink. There have been times, in the last year and a half, when even meeting my own gaze like this has been hard. Now I just see a sad, tired man who made bad choices, which is a step up from what I used to see.
I splash my face with cold water, letting it drip from the ends of my hair. I straighten up and let out a noise, then stop myself – the instinct to be quiet is still at the front of my mind. The door is opening; I forgot to lock it.
It’s Addie. She jumps when she sees me, but she’s quiet too, just letting out a little gasp, clutching a hand to her throat.
‘Sorry,’ we both whisper at the same time.
‘I’ll . . .’ I start moving towards the door.
‘No, I’ll go,’ she murmurs, hand on the doorknob. ‘I don’t even need a wee, I just needed . . .’
‘Out?’
‘Yeah.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘You’re still a bad sleeper, then?’
Worse, now – I never slept so well as when she was in my bed.
‘Rodney’s not helping,’ I say.
Addie clicks the door shut behind us, blocking out the sounds of three heavy sleepers.
‘The snoring? Or the creepiness?’ she asks.
‘He’s just so tragic,’ I say. ‘I read some of the poems he sent Cherry, you know.’
‘The one about how her vagina was like a strawberry?’
‘What? No?’
Addie covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh.’
‘In what way?’
‘Hmm?’
‘In what way was it like a strawberry? Because if it was the colour he was referring to, I’m not sure that’s . . .’
I trail off and Addie starts laughing, hand still at her mouth to stifle the noise. She bends, shoulders shaking, one hand gripping the counter by the sink.
‘Oh, God,’ she says. ‘We’re all idiots, the lot of us.’
‘And you think he’d go cherry rather than strawberry,’ I muse, ‘given her name.’
She laughs harder, and I feel myself grow taller. There’s nothing lovelier than making Addie laugh.
‘Dylan,’ she says.
I don’t know if she does it on purpose. She shifts her hand on the counter and suddenly it’s on top of my hand, on the edge of the sink, and she’s looking up at me, eyes bright with laughter. My heart is beating everywhere, right down to the fingertips beneath her hand. I can feel the joy growing, a great nuclear explosion from the centre of my chest, and gone is the idea that I ever stopped hoping she might love me again, because look, look how quickly it came back to me. It was never really gone.
She moves her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no,’ I begin, clenching my fist to stop myself from reaching out for her.
She lifts that hand to her face, lying it flat against her cheek, her forehead.
‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve tried so – I’ve . . .’
‘Addie?’
She’s crying. I step forward tentatively, and she moves too, into my chest, and as my arms close around her we’re two jigsaw pieces slotting into place. She fits perfectly; she belongs here.
‘Addie, what’s wrong?’ I ask. It takes all my energy not to dip my head and press my lips to her hair, the way I would when she was sad, when she was mine.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Shh. It’s OK. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’
Her fists clutch the fabric of my pyjama top; I can feel the wetness of her tears against my chest, and I hold her tighter.
‘You make it look so easy,’ she says, her voice muffled, vibrating against me.
‘Make what look so easy?’
‘Forgiving me,’ she says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
‘Forgiving you?’ I rub a hand up and down her back, slowly, carefully.