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When Sylvie and Victoria emerged from Sylvie’s room, the party had emptied out. Sylvie was coaxing Victoria downstairs.

Sylvie stood on the landing and put her finger on her lips. She opened her parents’ bedroom door as quietly as she could. It creaked loudly anyway, but her dad didn’t wake up. He was sleeping on his back, body propped up with pillows. She closed the door.

Downstairs, through the kitchen window, Sylvie watched her mum picking things up in the garden. Victoria was too drunk now and she was in one of her moods. Sylvie needed to get rid of her or get her to bed.

The music was still playing and when they went into the living room, Victoria turned it up. ‘Dance Away’ played out and Victoria spun and mock-pirouetted around the coffee table, pretending to sing into a half-empty wine bottle she picked up from the table. Then she took a swig from it. She couldn’t walk straight, she was knocking things over. Victoria stood on the edge of the paper table-cloth, bringing a glass bowl of crisps crashing to the floor.

‘Maybe you should go home,’ Sylvie said. ‘Or you can stay here.’

‘Ugh, no thanks.’

Sylvie looked at the door. ‘OK, well you could go and see Ryan. I’ll walk you halfway.’

Victoria mimicked her, her face all screwed up. She relaxed it then and it smoothed out again.

‘I think I should have a word with your dad before I go. Thank him for the party.’

‘He’s asleep.’

‘Then I’ll wake him up,’ Victoria said, drinking from the bottle and burping.

‘What is wrong with you tonight?’

Victoria suddenly put her hand up to her mouth and picked up the wastepaper bin. She bent over it, a slurry of liquid shooting out of her mouth. A short period of calm then another spurt. Sylvie went to her and rubbed her back. She felt sorry for her now.

She hoped this would signal the end of it, that Victoria would go home, sleep it off.

Sylvie tried to pull Victoria’s hair back from her face. It was dangling into the bin, getting matted with vomit. Victoria turned her head slowly. She was still gasping for breath and her eyes were bloodshot, a string of spittle dangling from her mouth.

Her eyes were rolling in her head slightly. How much had she had? She started to stand up, steadying herself on the fireplace, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. The room smelled sweet, sickly.

‘Maybe I will go in there and chat with your dad now, shall I, Sylvie?’

Sylvie heard her mum in the kitchen now, crockery clinking. The tension hovered between them.

‘What is your problem with my dad?’ As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t asked. Victoria hadn’t acted like this before. Something was wrong.

‘I saw them.’ Victoria got right up in Sylvie’s face. Her breath smelled sugary and putrid at the same time, a blast of rhubarb and custard boiled sweets.

‘I saw them, Sylvie,’ she said again. ‘This afternoon. He had his hand in her knickers. Upstairs in the bathroom.’ Victoria spat out the word knickers, a horrible hand movement to accompany it – waggling her fingers like a dying insect struggling on its back.

She didn’t say who but the realisation started to solidify in Sylvie’s mind.

Victoria was slurring badly, her face white and waxy, a sheen of sweat. She looked at Sylvie to take in the impact of the blow she had delivered.

She made a gesture to move towards the door, to go upstairs. Sylvie tried to block her way but Victoria powered past her. Sylvie reached out to grab her, but Victoria yanked away, part of her nail tearing, releasing a burst of agony and anger.

Sylvie examined her finger, tears filling up her eyes. There’d be no choice but to rip the rest of it off. ‘Don’t you dare go up there.’ Sylvie could feel the panic lurching up her body and sticking in her chest. The horror of the idea.

‘Your mum,’ Victoria jabbed the air, ‘was with my dad!’ The horrible hand movement again, a nasty little laugh. A look of panic that she was going to be sick again quickly subsided. ‘It’s disgusting.’ Victoria retched, swallowing something down. ‘Your dad is dying.’

Sylvie’s heart stopped in her chest.

‘Your dad is up there dying and your mother is already setting up his replacement.’

The door handle turned.

It was all in slow motion after that, a blur.