It’s late and Zoë is here, in her usual place on the sofa. I can hear when she slides between being awake and being asleep — her breathing becomes slower and deeper. I like listening to it. Like the quiet distracted purring when good old Oscar used to sit on my lap. I like to be the one who’s awake, the one who’s watching out for danger. If anything happened, if there were a fire or if her mother suddenly got ill, I’d be able to wake her up gently, take her where she needed to go, be in charge. It feels good to have her here again, and it’ll be lovely to not be alone tomorrow morning on my birthday. The first time for years. I’m going to be thirty-three. It feels like a good age, still young-ish. Not as old as Red — I call him ‘old man’ sometimes. Still some time to change the direction of my life. Still some time to become a new person. I’m not sure if I really think that’s possible, if I really believe it could happen. But I don’t want to get all philosophical today.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to tell Zoë about the things that have been happening, but once I’d started it wasn’t too bad. I sounded very casual to try to reduce the impact, but when I told her about the cutting, she looked away from me. She didn’t ask to see my arms or legs. I ended up telling her pretty much everything — the way Abbie had found out that night, the time we watched that TV programme together and I was terrified she’d guess. I told her a white lie about having booked an appointment with a counsellor, as I wanted to reassure her. I’ve almost decided that I’ll give it a go, anyway. She was quiet, didn’t ask any questions. I don’t know if she was able to take it in properly. I hope it’s not too much of a burden for her to carry. I hope she’ll still want to know me now.

Afterwards, later, she said some things that really surprised me. I’ve always thought of Zoë as pretty sorted — even when she broke up with Jules, it seemed as if she had a core of strength running through her. Even when she was shaky, I never thought for a second that she wouldn’t get through it. I thought she must have had a pretty solid base behind her, a happy, normal childhood. But it turns out it wasn’t that solid, after all. Nothing dramatic happened — there weren’t any beatings, and she didn’t get locked in any cupboards. But she told me she used to be fat, until she was thirteen; she said she’d show me some pictures when I went to hers next. We were eating while she was telling me this, macaroni cheese I’d made in the oven with masses of cheese and crunchy breadcrumbs on top and tomato and cucumber salad — it was delicious. She said she’d always had a thing with food. She didn’t know where it had come from.

A long time ago she’d been so desperate to be thinner that she’d made herself sick a few times after binging, and she also went through phases of eating strange things or at strange times. Once at University she’d lived on noodles and tinned sweetcorn for six weeks. Six weeks! I have noticed her being a bit funny around food, saying she shouldn’t be eating whatever it is we’re eating or mentioning her weight a lot, but I didn’t realise how serious it was for her. How serious it IS for her — she said she’s much better these days, but sometimes she still has difficult weeks and can only face eating the same meal every night. Jules used to tease her about it, said it was because she only knew how to cook one meal. She’d never had a proper conversation with him about it, had never even tried to explain. It seems like the more I tell other people about the odd things I do or feel, the more they share their own dark secrets with me. Can everyone really be so screwed up? I suppose at least I’m not the only one. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? If they’re all screwed up too, how do they manage to get up every morning and go to work? How do they bear it?

But I said I didn’t want to get philosophical. And I don’t — I do enough of that. I think enough about it. And it’s my birthday tomorrow; I should be looking forward to it. My last birthday? I think that’s why my thoughts keep getting drawn into the darkness. The dark wood of confusion and doubt and monsters and dead people and dead ends. My last birthday… it could be. Let me think some happy thoughts instead. Happy thoughts for my birthday. Fluffy baby rabbits hopping about in fields, friendly sheep jumping picket fences. Abbie’s kitchen. My camera sitting up on its shelf. Red in his charcoal grey jumper, me snuggling in, his warm smell… sleepy now. Going to climb into my dreams…

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