Sammy woke up next morning to the noise of someone being violently sick in the upstairs toilet. He padded in his socks through to the kitchen and stuck the kettle on, yawning. Well, she was alive. He brewed up, slopped in milk and took one mug through to the lounge. Hearing the toilet flush and sounds of movement, he took the other mug upstairs and found Milly sitting on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s clothes, red-faced and looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge, her light brown hair hanging in her eyes, her clothes dishevelled. He put the tea down on the bedside table.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Take some aspirin. And lots of water. Flush it all through, yeah?’
She nodded.
‘You staying on here?’
Another nod from behind her hair.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know it’s been bad. But it’s going to get better now.’
Milly said nothing.
‘Right. I’ll leave you to it then. OK?’
‘OK,’ she said, then looked up at him. ‘Thanks,’ she said, but he had already turned away, gone out of the bedroom door and down the stairs.
Minutes later, she heard the front door close behind him.