IRINA

She swallowed as she stepped out of the car, reaching back in to grab the neck of the wine bottle. She felt her stomach turn over as she stared up at Andrew’s house.

She was wearing a yellow dress, her hair tied back. She’d got ready in the mirror in the apartment, pressing her lips together, smoothing the bags underneath her eyes as if she’d woken from the longest sleep. The scars on her face had seemed less livid as she traced them with one finger.

He opened the door, distracted by something behind him, before taking her in. He had a two-day stubble and was wearing a jumper with a stain on the sleeve. His dishevelment gave her a little more confidence. She didn’t want to mess this up again. He seemed wrong-footed as she asked in a small voice, ‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course,’ Andrew said, standing back. ‘I’ll just get on some—’

‘Don’t do anything,’ she said, one hand on his arm. ‘I just want to talk.’