It was dark outside when I awoke on the couch in the front room, nestled among piles of apparel like a fast-fashion dragon lounging on her gaudy hoard. My phone flashed beside a crushed carton of cold McNuggets and a half-empty bottle of wine. I had no memory of leaving the apartment. I definitely didn't remember phoning the hospital administrator's cell number, but her business card was on the coffee table and my outgoing call log proved I had.

She left a voicemail confirming my appointment at Moorfields Eye Hospital at eight o'clock.

Please dress comfortably and get plenty of rest. You'll be sitting through a marathon of procedures that normally take place over the span of weeks.

Clearly the NHS were eager to do the right thing in short order and close the book on their burden of care.

I bit the tags off a pair of sweatpants with sequined broadswords running down the legs. Pulled a snakeskin-patterned peasant blouse over my head and tried to keep the floppy sleeves out of the sink as I washed up and waited for an Uber to take me to Moorfields.

An ocularist came in on her day off to create my prosthetic. Joanna lost her eye to cancer in her twenties. After a brief consultation she filled the void in my head with a fast-setting alginate. The hardened lump she removed looked like a nibbled bit of saltwater taffy.

The firmed alginate was packed into a plaster mold and while that was curing Joanna painted a copy of my iris. We spent hours seated knee to knee, often close enough to kiss as she mixed pigments and referenced the real thing. Despite a lot of sneaky staring, I couldn't figure out which of her eyes was made of glass.

I'm blinkered on the same side as you, she said. We're twinsies. And prosthetics are rarely made of glass. We use an acrylic compound.

Joanna cast a wax model of my eye. I mastered the technique of installing and removing the off-white oblong countless times as she worked from a tinker's quiver of tiny tools, shaving away layers thinner than skin to perfect the fit.

We stopped for a break in the afternoon. Joanna was applying another dose of topical anesthetic to my aching eye socket when her colleague arrived with doughnuts and a tray of tall lattes. She launched her wheeled chair across the floor and commandeered the refreshments as Stuart put on a lab coat and washed his hands.

Stuart, you magnificent bastard, Joanna said, paddling her feet to scoot her chair alongside mine. She put a cup in my hand and peered into the paper sack on her lap.

Margaret, this is Stuart, my mentor. He's a bino so technically he's not one of us, but I promise he's a genuine diamond. The man knows everything about prosthetics except for the experience of actually losing an eye. Six years ago he fitted my first piece and encouraged me to become an ocularist.

Stuart smiled warmly and sat down with a dad-grunt. He removed the lid from his latte and blew tiny ripples over the swirled surface.

I saw a glimmer of aptitude and ambition in this one, he said, nodding toward Joanna.

He took a long sip and stared wistfully into his cup.

Now I believe I was looking at the wrong eye.

Joanna stopped rummaging through the doughnuts and slowly lifted her middle finger from the sack.

You and your horse, mate, she said.

Stuart smiled, set his cup on the glowing white workbench behind him. He squared up in front of me and clapped his hands on his thighs.

Shall we? he asked.

Joanna munched on a doughnut as Stuart held the artificial iris beside mine to inspect the color. He uncapped a Sharpie, marked the center of the wax eye and compared its alignment to my eye as I looked up and down, left and right.

Well done, Jo, he said. The fit is secure, the color's a dead match and the gaze proves true. Margaret, will you please remove your prosthetic? I imagine you've perfected that skill today and you've got to be sore and sick of it. I promise the end of this torture is near.

I smiled and removed the eye as I'd done a hundred times that day. Stuart wheeled away to his bench and scribed a seat for my artificial iris, centered on the Sharpie dot. He plugged the iris into the wax and capped it with a clear corneal unit.

Joanna drained her coffee and softly applauded against the empty cup.

Stuart stood, groaned softly and stared at the back of his bare wrist, tapping the skin with one finger to read the time from an imaginary watch crystal.

Let's see, he said. You've got roughly, three hours to kill while I cast your acrylic prosthetic, clean it up and add some final cosmetic touches. Staining and veining, all the imperfections that make an eye look perfect. I'll ring you when it's ready. Our waiting room is down the hall. If you're a fan of ancient magazines and Sky News blaring non-stop it will exceed your wildest expectations.

Stuart left the room with my eye in a foam-lined tray. Joanna hung up her lab coat, pulled her purse over one shoulder and rubbed her face with her hands. She touched up the gloss on her lips, stretched her neck from side to side until it popped, then fell back against the doorframe. The girl was spent.

Margaret, she said. It's been an absolute pleasure.

The thought of her departure drove a cold gust of despair through the warm heart of my good mood. The chemistry we created between us that morning was so easy and enjoyable that I'd remained safe under its spell, unaware it would end when she had to leave.

Joanna opened a desk drawer and dangled a pink eyepatch on an elastic strap around one finger.

I'm going over the road for a glass of red wine and a greasy panino, she said. If that sounds more appealing than the waiting room, you're welcome to join me. We could pluralize the order. Make it a bottle of red and panini.

I stretched the eyepatch around my head and adjusted it in the mirror.

It drives me crazy when people use panini in the singular, I said.

God listen to us, Joanna said. One-eyed fucking Gilmore girls.

She led the way to a cozy side-street café. We ordered panini, a bottle of Nebbiolo and a massive cheese plate and watched the world walk by the window. Joanna told hilarious, embarrassing stories about her prosthetic malfunctions and shared invaluable tips for the modern one-eyed woman.

You should feel special, she said. The NHS only authorizes same-day service for exceptional cases. Persons of notoriety or privilege. My first rush job was a man on trial for murder. His solicitor argued his missing eye could unfavorably prejudice a jury but the Crown saw it as a delay tactic.

She speared three pieces of cheese on her fork and pulled them from the tines between her teeth, curling her lips back to preserve their cherry gloss.

Stuart and I were called in to fit him overnight. His hands and feet were shackled, there were guards standing over him with stun guns the whole time but honestly he couldn't have been nicer. Please and thank you, you know? They sent him down for life. He dissolved his wife in acid. We had a diplomat's daughter, I never found out exactly what happened there but she was a spectacular bitch, spoilt, I hated her. And we made a piece for a distant relative on the fringes of the royal family. Supposedly a hunting accident but Stuart was sure someone took his eye with a broken bottle. And now you. Our first rock star.

I reached for my wine with a careful hand. I'd nearly knocked the glass over twice already, misjudging its placement and bunting it with my fingers. Joanna recognized my cautious effort and she smiled.

Owls' eyes are so large they're fixed in position, she said. They have to bob and weave their heads to reconcile the two images in their brain. I'm constantly rolling my head while driving to change my perspective and overcome my lack of depth perception. My husband calls me Cockatoo. It looks like I'm singing along with the radio, which I typically am anyway. For social settings like this I've perfected tipping my chin in a series of photogenic poses that some can read as posh and obnoxious. Observe.

Joanna's shiny hair brushed over one shoulder as she tipped her head, lifted the wine bottle and filled my glass.

See? Smoke and mirrors babe, she said. You'll learn to cope in your own way. And soon you'll be accessorizing.

It was my turn to cock my head. Joanna grinned.

Let me see your phone, she said. You'll want to bookmark this. Stuart has a friend who does custom jobs and he's magic. I don't care if this sounds shallow, but treating my prosthetic as a fashion accessory was effective therapy. Helped me make it part of my New Normal.

The Andalusian Gog's online catalog of bespoke prosthetics included floral designs and superhero logos. Reptilian eyes, clan tartans, billiard balls and functional snow globes. The crests of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and an endless selection of football club colors, home and away.

Joanna showed me a selfie where she wore her hair short with bangs, and porcupine highlights that really didn't work.

Shit hair, I know, she said. There's a whole story behind those poor choices but look at that eye.

The prosthetic she wore was an alarming yellow with an intricate black bee design in the center.

I had it made after the Arena Bombing, she said. The Ariana Grande concert? I'm a Manchester girl. That worker bee represents my city and it became a symbol of our strength after the attack.

Joanna sat back and swirled her wine glass with one clutched hand.

I saw that same strength in you today, she said. The way you carry yourself, after everything you've been through. Evil people leaking your pictures, tabloids running you down like Diana. And I just want to say I think you're lovely Margaret. If you ever need anything that I'm in a position to provide, I hope you'll let me know. Or, if you simply want to get nuts and go bump in the night? You can count on me for that as well.

Joanna entered her number in my phone and saved the contact as Jo.

We ordered another bottle of wine and soon became loud enough to require shushing.

Sometimes all you need is one good friend.

Stuart phoned when my prosthetic was finished. Jo held my hand as we walked back to Moorfields for my final fitting.

The color was perfect. For the first time since the bombing the lashes of my left eye weren't clumped and gummy, sunken in ointment. I smiled and cried at the same time.

On the way home I removed my sunglasses and relished my warm wine buzz, the feeling of fresh air moving over my unbandaged skin. In a moment of madness I shot a selfie at a red light and put it on Citizen Samurai's Instagram, no makeup, no filter. Brady was the first to like it.

Maxim came to Peckham the next day to look at property with his builder. I buzzed him up, hid my pills and scrambled to fit my prosthetic before he came trooping through the door with his three daughters.

The twins needed the bathroom. Maxim's eldest, Whitney, saw my donated designer clothing hanging from the curtain rods, in heaps on furniture in the front room.

Holy fuck, she said. You've got gear from Robo-Slag and GULAGirl like literally hanging from your walls.

When Sade and Chaka Khan saw their big sister zipped inside a cherry-red puffer jacket, twirling circles in the front room with her phone held at arm's length they were no longer interested in looking at run-down real estate with Dad. I begged Maxim to leave the ladies with me while he saw to business down the street.

My guests complained of hunger. They weren't keen on Lebanese food and I didn't feel like cooking so we struck a bargain. If they agreed to model Peachy's clothes and help me choose any separates or ensembles that wouldn't rob the gift of sight from my remaining eye, they could keep the things I didn't want and I would spring for pizza.

We dressed up, ordered Domino's and dashed down to the street to meet the driver on the curb in flowing scarves and flat-billed ballcaps like some kind of K-Pop-slash-Stevie Knicks collision.

The girls ate until they complained of feeling sick.

That's how you know you've had an American lunch, not a British tea, I said. Come on. We have work to do.

We shoved the sparse furniture up against the walls in the front room. The twins marked a catwalk over the floorboards between ribbons of toilet tissue weighted with hardware-heavy British coins. Whitney set up a pair of speakers from her backpack and detonated a playlist loaded with bass. I turned my flash on and blinded my models as they came stomping down the runway like show ponies, popping skinny hips, shrugging jackets off their shoulders and framing vogue poses inside angled arms.

I set aside the things I liked. The girls talked me into keeping several pieces that were miles outside my comfort zone and I let them decide how to distribute the rest. They worked that pile like buzzards picking a carcass clean and I sat in fascination, witnessing a sibling system of government that fucked with my mind as an only child.

The issue of shoe ownership triggered the sole conflict. Even the smallest sizes didn't fit any of the girls and some of them were too big for me, but Whitney successfully argued she would grow into them first. She halted the twins' tears by handing over the prized puffer jacket.

Vincent texted while the girls were huddled over my phone, sending themselves the best shots from our fashion show. The trio let loose a long annoying "oooh" that rose and fell like a TV-studio audience reacting to a passionate kiss.

Vincent's asking if you're free to meet tonight for drinks in Kings Cross, Whitney said.

Can we come? Sade asked.

Rudechick man, Whitney said. Don't be stupid. Margaret has serious history with that boy and it's messy, like proper tangled. Two of them in a room is going to be a tense affair. Defs not recommended for children.

You're only four years older, Whit, Chaka Khan said. If we're children that makes you a child as well.

Whitney, how old are you? I asked.

I'll be fourteen in December.

You absolutely terrify me, I said.

I authorized Whitney to take charge of communications and reply to Vincent on my behalf.

Just get the where and the when out of that man and go dark on him, I said. No LOLz, no emojis. This is business.

Whitney booked my meeting with Vincent and put my phone in my hand. She tugged at my hair and wore that strained face one woman puts on when she feels duty-bound to gently inform another woman that she's slipping.

Sis. You need a shower, Whitney said. Scrub your face 'til it stings, wash that ass and soak this rat's nest. Pile it hot under a towel, we need to steam the wire out. I didn't bring my iron but I'll manage the rest. The twins got your face, they handle Ce'Hara's look and I'll just say it, my dames are scary professional with a brush, yeah? Come on, hop to.

Whitney planted her hand in the small of my back, pushed me toward the bathroom and set off an EDM playlist that pumped stuttering throbs of bass through the filthy plaster-and-lath walls. I got out of the shower and the girls leapt into action like a NASCAR pit crew to get me prepped.

Their collective YouTube-tutored knowledge of hair styling, skin care and cosmetology achieved results beyond anything I'd ever paid for in a salon. I closed my eye and melted under the gentle industry of the sisters' hands working to salvage my hair and unfuck my face.

Maxim came to take the girls to their mother's house. We packed their new clothes, piled the leftover pizza into one box and Max drove me up to Kings Cross to meet Vincent.

Z'nunna my business, Maxim said. But Brady's seriously worried about you.

He shouldn't be, I said. I needed some time to myself and I took it. That's all this is.

Then call the man, please. Give him a sign of life. This part of the tour's supposed to be easy now that we're back in England, we can come home between shows, sleep in our own beds. Listening to Brady whinge about you is worse than being on the road.

I promise I'll call him, I said.

We drove north through Willowbrook, Walworth and Waterloo past a mad mélange of historic landmarks, Victorian architecture and more McDonald's and KFCs than I could count.

I held up my phone to check my prosthetic. Sade leaned over my lap, looked at the screen and stared at me.

Do I still have pizza sauce on my face? I asked.

Sade pushed closer. The dark weight of her gaze bored deep into my real eye.

The blue part of your eye looks like a city, she whispered. And the black part looks like it's going to explode.

Whitney whirled around in the front seat.

Oh my god Sade you're such a little weirdo. When you say stuff like that it reinforces the stereotype that twins are evil. Dad, you've got to let me come live with you and Ce'Hara. Please, like I can't have friends 'round. All these freaks need are matching outfits and a hotel to haunt.

Maxim crept past the main entrance of London Saint Pancras and waited for a taxi to pull away from the curb near the corner. He rolled the window down and I said goodbye to my squabbling team of stylists.

Do you know where you are right now? Maxim asked. This is the exact spot where The Spice Girls start singing acapella in the "Wannabe" video, yeah? That's serious cultural heritage, I'm talking blue plaque.

Whitney put her fist out for a bump.

Slay babe, she said.

Girl power, I said.

Maxim and his girls joined the rush of traffic to Camden and left me standing awestruck and breathless beneath the pinnacles, spires and red brick façade of a Gothic Revival masterpiece that made Hogwarts look like a bail hostel. Zig-a-zig-ah indeed.

I retraced the Spice Girls' historic steps and wandered Saint Pancras in silent worship, twisting my neck to fill my monocular vision with a wealth of extraordinary adornments. I counted arches until I lost track of their number, a child stargazing under a sky of brickwork and iron.

While touring Europe Vincent and his sober-roadie society organized outings to museums and galleries but I never joined in. I preferred to set off alone and get lost according to Melanie's Peace Corps playbook for women abroad. No purse, no passport. Just some small bills safety-pinned over my underwear waistband and a razorblade wrapped in a twenty-Euro note in my bra.

In narrow lanes, on stone stairs worn saddle smooth I felt the ghosts of centuries by my side. Not rulers and heroes honored with grand tombs and guided tours, but men and women who drew water and baked bread, caught trains and kept promises. People who lived and died and disappeared in the span of mortal seasons on simple city streets.

I entered The Booking Office and lingered behind the curved end of the bar while I scouted the room. Vincent sat alone in a cluster of upholstered chairs, watching a candle burning in a glass lantern.

He was the only person I've ever known who could kill one hour, four hours, murder a whole day or more with nothing but his imagination. If you were stuck someplace boring, a dentist's office or a desert island, waiting for something you wanted and willing the crippled hands of a clock to move faster, that man had the ability to generate a separate world of distraction and make time disappear.

That's how our musical collaboration began, when I got a flat on our way to see Tracy Chapman at The Gorge Amphitheater and found my newish used car was sold to me without a spare tire.

Vincent looked up and down the empty highway. He stepped to the centerline and walked away from the car until his rippling image floated above the blacktop on a silver band of heat.

He strolled back to me at the speed of a dream and sat by my side on the bug-crusted bumper. We kissed. We kissed again and I asked Vincent:

We're in love, right?

And he said:

Can you hear it?

He brushed the hair out of my face and pointed up the road.

It's coming, he whispered. It's on the wind. One warm wheatfield away.

I sang those words back to Vincent. He held my hand, hummed along and we dreamed up another stanza. When the tow truck arrived we'd written two verses and the bridge of "Daisy Breaker" with our fingertips on the doors and rear window of my dusty Corolla.

When we worked, we worked very well. Crisp corners, cups on coasters, dotted i's, new-car smell. The magic we made took many forms and that day showed me it could happen anywhere, anytime when we were together.

A busboy passing behind Vincent dropped a metal charger plate the size of a Spartan shield. It struck the floor on edge with a bang and he bolted from his chair, barked his shins on the low table in front of him and upset the candle. A dozen lively conversations halted. Every head in The Booking Office turned at once to look at Vincent.

I smashed one hand against my mouth as the glass lantern rolled a noisy mile over the tabletop and clattered to the floor, leaving a crescent trail of clear wax that clouded and went white as it cooled.

The skin between Vincent's collar and jawline snapped taut and he clapped a hand over the back of his neck, wild eyes searching for a safe place in a room full of sharp stares. He slowly returned to his seat, fused his hands in his lap and bowed his head.

Fireworks on New Year's and the Fourth of July always made Vincent flinchy and irritable, prone to drink far more than his typical too-much, but now he looked worse than I'd ever seen. Well past shaken and drifting into shock. I felt a little small when I realized I'd yet to consider how the bombing might have begun to pick at the stitches of his patchy mental health.

Tongues thawed and stirred small talk that warmed the icy room. When the level of conversation returned to a steady simmer Vincent replaced the candle and lantern, then patted his pockets for matches.

I rooted through my purse to find my lighter. I smiled, imagining the look I'd see on Vincent's face when I leaned over the table to light his candle and tossed my hair back like some dumb cover girl to show off my new eye.

A willow-thin blonde in a backless dress with a choker neckline entered my narrow field of view. She sat beside Vincent, pecked his cheeks and took a silver Zippo from her pocketbook. It clicked like a pistol and I backed slowly out of the bar as Peachy tipped the candle's wick into the blue heart of a thumb-sized flame.

Unanswered calls and texts from Vincent heated my phone as I took the long way home.

I arrived at the flat acutely aware that almost an entire day had passed without any form of narcotic intervention.

I staged a series of heavy hitters on the kitchen table and phoned Sultan Beirut with my take-out order. Watched the clock and strategically timed that dose to ensure I'd be straight enough to reach the first floor, pay for my meal and return to the flat before the effect of opiates turned loose on an empty stomach left me bulldozed and immobile.

As I scaled the stairs a swimmy sensation scoured the insides of my skull, rising like fine bubbles in a fizzy drink. The treads I ascended stood two inches taller than they did on my way down and I clipped my toes and stumbled, nearly dumping my dinner before I reached the top.

The sight of Vincent lurking in the dim hall outside my door should have scared the life out of me but I was thoroughly insulated, incapable of reaction beyond common courtesy.

I invited him inside. We sat on mismatched chairs at the tiny kitchen table. I smelled whiskey on his breath as he positioned my amber medication canisters between us, a boozy grandmaster recreating a legendary endgame.

Our server brought three menus to the table, Vincent said. He recognized you at the bar and thought you came to meet us but you disappeared. Peachy and I went looking for you and she saw you leave in a cab.

My mind felt flat, pressed like linen under a mountain of lead. Peak impairment was imminent. I needed to dismount my tall wooden chair and relocate to a more stable platform while I still had the ability to remain upright.

I didn't come clear-cross London for cocktails with your agent, I said. I've been fuckin' worried. Wonderin' how you're doing. And I wanted to tell you how I'm doing because I gotta be honest. I don't believe I'm entirely okay. Okay? But I'm not comfortable discussin' personal shit with a total fucking stranger. So I split.

The room rolled as I caught my breath. I gripped the sides of my chair and braced myself like a nervous Jewish bride hoisted high in the stormy eye of a wild wedding horah.

But now you're here, I said. And your girlfriend's not, so maybe we can check in, you know? Get caught up. Talk about shit.

Vincent's eyes lacked the clarity I saw on tour. His face shifted from one indecipherable expression to another.

I can't stay, he said. Peachy's waiting downstairs. We invited you out to discuss a proposal. This is business.

Vincent pushed my medication aside to make room for a document that looked like a contract.

Peachy got us booked on Graham Norton, he said. Not as a band, but as Vincent and Margaret. Just two people telling our side of the whole bombing thing. It doesn't pay much more than expenses, and if you sign this then Peachy gets most of it. But the exposure we'll get from sitting on that couch? That's invaluable. And we really need it right now.

Oh yeah, I said. For our brands.

Vincent shook my comment off and moved forward with his agent's coached agenda.

Peachy knows we have representation, he said. She's not trying to step on your girl's toes, okay? But Mel only has a stake in the things we do as Citizen Samurai. Our agreement was limited to performances and promotions related to the Five Ways tour and they've moved on without us. I'm sure Brady can keep you comfortable, but I've got to line up my next move. Can you do this for me?

You're drinking again, I said. Did Peachy recommend that? Like it's part of her PR strategy?

Vincent shrugged and turned his head. He reached for the back of his neck but stopped himself. Grimaced like he was swallowing something sour. Made a fist and lowered it to the table.

I saw you, I said. In the bar tonight. You're doing it again. Let me see.

I tottered to the far side of the table and stood behind Vincent. He twisted in his seat and ducked when I put my fingers down his shirt collar. I tried again and he smacked my hand away.

I'll do the stupid show if you let me see, I said.

He took a pen from his jacket pocket.

Sign first, he said.

Fine, I said. I'll fuckin' sign.

I snatched the pen and scratched my name at the bottom of the page.

Vincent cocked his head and considered my signature. He took the pen, clicked it and handed it back to me with the ball point advanced from the barrel.

I sheepishly signed the gouged paper in ink.

You're barely functioning, aren't you? he asked.

Motherfucker I'm in severe pain, I said. I didn't take my meds until now because I was hoping to have a coherent conversation tonight. With you. But you're clearly more interested in shillin' for Peaches so, maybe fuck you Vincent. Yes, definitely fuck you. Hold still.

I pulled his collar back. What I saw was far worse than I expected. A raw abrasion covered Vincent's spine from the base of his neck past the tops of his shoulder blades, just as far as his hand could reach and compulsively scratch. His sleeveless undershirt was stiff with dried blood and crusted sebum.

The last time I caught him doing this it took a squeeze of Neosporin and three Band-Aids to dress the wound. The weeping mess I was looking at now was larger than my footprint.

Oh dude. Why are you doing this to yourself? I asked.

I gently nudged his head forward to let in more light. Vincent abruptly stood and backed toward the door with my signed agreement in his hands.

The show tapes tomorrow night, he said. We ... I made an appointment for you, near the studio. For hair and nails and stuff. Another boutique wants to dress you for the publicity-

Outstanding, I said. More skate-park couture from Beavis and Butthead of London?

No, he said. A real label. They dressed Fleabag. I guess she's tall like you. They're sending a stylist to meet you at the salon. So. Your appointment's at two. I'll text you the address.

Vincent's eyes moved over me in a sympathetic assessment.

Do you want me to set an alarm on your phone? he asked.

I held my phone close and carefully docked with his empty chair. My tongue felt thick, like a slug buckled between two bricks. I spoke slowly to avoid slurring.

I'll do the circus-freak makeover, I said. The clothes, the show. The whole shootin' match. But when we're done? You and I are going to meet up for drinks. Since you're drinkin' again. Just you and me.

I patted the back of my neck.

And we're gonna talk about this, I said. Because if you're doing this again? And you're drinking? That means you're not sleeping. And we both know what's comin' next. So I'll pick a place. And I'll text you the fuckin' address.

Vincent nodded, folded my agreement and tucked it in his pocket. He walked to the end of a hazy tunnel and put his hand on the doorknob.

I don't think you need a makeover, he said. Your eye looks great. And your hair too. You look nice today. Please set your alarm.

The sound of his footsteps on the staircase faded.

I removed my prosthetic and set my alarm. Turned my chair toward the window, propped my elbows on the splintery sill and rested my forehead against the glass. I wiped one rubber hand through the vapor on the pane and watched Vincent. He looked left, then right, and walked across the street to a waiting Uber.

The couch cradled me as I squirmed free of my curated outfit. I buckled my tits inside the firm nylon sandwich of the stab vest. Closed my eye and time-traveled through a smear of black hours without nightmares or dreams.

Meeting David Mitchell proved to be the most surreal part of appearing on The Graham Norton Show.

My fake fingernails stabbed David in his wrist when we shook hands in the green room. I apologized, blamed my lack of depth perception for his injury and comically pushed my palms through the air like a sloppy mime failing to find the limits of an invisible prison.

Peachy stopped snugging Vincent's necktie to shoot an annoyed look my way, red lips compressed in a firm fissure that hardly ranked as a smile.

David graciously played along for my benefit in front of Vincent and the other guests, flattening his hands against unseen planes.

I'm happy to participate in any scheme of greeting, David said. Except the dreaded high-five, I suspect it's really a 'macho' form of compensation for men who'd rather trade bare-bottom spankings.

Before I could put the reins on my laughter a nervous cackle burst free and it quickly multiplied from one runaway stray to a manic trampling stampede. I fought to get my shit together and keep my inner fangirl in check as the genius who portrayed Mark Corrigan on "Peep Show" offered me a glass of wine.

Everyone hushed up and we watched on a monitor as Graham opened the show. One by one the other guests left the green room and walked onstage to cheers and applause. Soon a production assistant wearing a headset waved for me and Vincent to join Graham under the lights.

The audience was smaller than any crowd we played for on tour, but when I perched on Graham's couch and the applause stopped I could feel every eye upon me. Their intimate attention pulled my nerves tight like wires that cinched the top of my throat closed.

Graham announced that our hit song "Owen" was nearing the top of the charts. He inquired about its origins, then read aloud a beautiful letter from the Wilfred Owen Association awarding lifetime memberships to Citizen Samurai. The subject of my leaked hospital photos led to a stern sermon about privacy and decency and Graham tore into the press and the NHS.

The crowd erupted when he presented Vincent and I with black gift cards on behalf of a restaurant chain called Nando's. Eleven said the exclusive lifetime passes were the stuff of legend but she'd never actually seen one. Graham passed them down the couch for everyone to marvel at.

Graham's ability to conduct the odd personalities on that stage was astounding. He guided our energy, emotion and collective wit to wild peaks and organically amplified that effect through his crowd, who fed it back to us in a continuous loop.

I experienced a real chemical high as he clapped and laughed, braying like a fun Irish uncle as David bantered with Vincent about the cultural intersection of fried chicken, country music and censorship.

Sixty seconds later it was as if we were alone, just the two of us when Graham leaned forward in his chair and inquired in a soft voice about my recovery since the bombing.

I shook my emotional Magic 8-Ball, desperate to conjure a glib quip to prove I wasn't beaten, or to make a stoic statement that could only come from a woman moving forward on a high road of healing and self-discovery. I wanted something worthy of a tattoo or a T-shirt but nothing bubbled up from the black hole that swallowed all my clever words.

I opened my mouth to answer and gasped.

I heard that same halting hush echo across the audience and that's when I understood there were real people out there on the other side of those lights. They were listening to me. Actually giving a fuck and I wasn't ready for that.

Tears fell down my cheeks when I looked at Graham. He was the first person to ask me about me.

Vincent held my hand as I spoke. I can't recall what I said. I don't remember how the show wrapped but when the house lights came up I was on my feet, sniffling into a wad of wet tissue, trading hugs with Graham and the other guests. A fresh batch of my tears soaked David Mitchell's beard and I looked over his shoulder to see Peachy, elbowing through production assistants and crew members to intercept Vincent and lead him away backstage.

One hour later Vincent came to Dishoom alone as promised to find me seated with my blind side against the wall, stuffing my face with garlic naan.

He ordered a double Bushmills neat and we ate without speaking, wrecking plates of samosas, prawns Koliwada and chicken ruby.

The bow on my blouse didn't survive the appetizer round unmolested. I removed it, wiped my lips on the black silk and opened my collar. Vincent hauled his necktie off and stained it with a daub of chutney in an expression of solidarity.

What's next? I asked. What are we doing tonight?

Stormzy invited us to meet him at a club, he said. It's not far from here.

Vincent paid the bill. I left a big fat tip and we rode from Kings Cross to Camden High Street in a London black cab.

I know this because there were photographers outside The Electric Ballroom taking pictures of all the real celebrities making grand entrances, and the next morning The Mirror ran a shot of Vincent holding my hand as we disembarked through the suicide door of an authentic London black cab.

Those tabloid photos created an invaluable record of our night on the town. The scenes I could recall were cleaver-cut together in my mind in media res like a Tarantino film about Salvador Dali winding his watch inside Fred Flintstone's closet.

We piled into Stormzy's VIP booth. I navigated my way to the bottom of several glasses and confessed that I could only get to sleep if I were wearing nothing but my Union Jack stab vest. Nobody seemed to believe me when I said the nylon shell toughened my nipples like acorn caps so I unbuttoned my blouse to prove it.

I had a feeling I was fucking up, but there was a momentum in the room that was made for me, a perfect third rail of lunatic power where I saw no need to put the brakes on any traffic between my mind and my mouth, nor discriminate between impulse and action.

A frenzied sequence followed where Vincent lunged to grab my hands. I stomped his toes to make him let go and my knees slammed the underside of the table, upsetting ashtrays and spilling drinks. Stormzy and his entourage leapt to their feet, shaking Champagne and spirits from pocketbooks and phones. My offer to buy a round and make amends was politely declined.

Vincent wrestled me from the booth. While he was busy making apologies I twisted out of his grip and shambled to the restroom. I shut myself in a stall, checked my makeup in my phone and rang Jo to broadcast the beauty of her prosthetic alongside my mauve salon nails and smoky blue eye shadow.

Jo squealed when I unveiled my makeover, then shrieked as I misjudged the distance between my fingertips and my lower eyelid and prodded my prosthetic loose. I slapped my tits, attempting to trap it against my chest, but it fell to the tile and I dropped my phone in the toilet.

I crawled the floor, flinging water from my device and hunting for my prosthetic through one tear-clouded eye. A pair of men's shoes stepped into the neighboring stall.

I frantically waved one hand beneath the divider and begged the shoes' owner to be on the lookout for my eye. The shoes turned and retreated. Another pair arrived and I repeated my petition of caution.

There was a knock at my stall door and a woman asked:

You alright in there babe? Can I help?

I opened the stall door. It was Kate Nash.

I got very excited. And I got a little loud. You would too if you loved Kate Nash as much as I do. I had the presence of mind to keep my toilet-soaked hand away from my independent idol as she gave me a hug and triaged my troubles.

Kate wrapped a toilet-tissue mitten around her fingers and wiped away my tears and streaked makeup. Then that beautiful woman, the bad lieutenant herself got down on her hands and knees with me and we searched the row of stalls in opposite directions from the point of separation. It had skittered two doors down and Kate roared like she'd won the lottery when she found it.

I washed my prosthetic with soap and hot water and plugged it back into place. Kate cocooned my phone in paper towels and loaned me her eyeliner. While nodding dangerously close to the mirror, working fruitlessly to resurrect my ruined makeup I noticed a line of urinals behind me. We were in the men's room.

What the fuck was Kate Nash doing in the men's room?

My last clear memory was an out-of-body affair, like drone footage of The Last Supper if Jesus and His apostles were thirsty women knocking back cosmopolitans and cans of lager.

Kate popped one of her barrettes loose and tacked my hair back out of my eyes. I bought another round for the table and Kate and I talked about Kirsty MacColl. We sang "Miss Otis Regrets" and I cried like a messy wasted baby.

There's no way for me to explain what happened next because a great torn gap appeared in the fabric of my conscious understanding. On the Before side of that hole, I was stirring my drink with one finger, singing along with Kate. On the After side, I woke up buckled in the front seat of Brady's Land Rover with my head against the window, wearing the pink eyepatch Jo gave me at Moorfields.

The world outside the speeding car was a jet-wash of burning color and turbulent motion, the grass too green on the ground and the blue sky too bright to behold. The perfume smell of a gas-station flower bouquet on the dashboard filled my lungs and I coughed, came close to retching.

Are you going to be sick again? Brady asked.

He looked over his shoulder and signaled, ready to change lanes.

I tried to sit up. My limbs were buried in sand, stiff and weighted with pain. I wore sparkly shoes, sweatpants dotted with emoji faces and a hooded sweatshirt with the letters QUNT over the front in a collegiate font.

I folded the passenger-side visor down and looked in the mirror. My real eye resembled a blinking cigarette burn bordered in shades of trauma and blue. Under the eyepatch my prosthetic was missing and the socket was a red crater, raging with infection.

I spoke and pulled a rusty chain of unpleasant sounds from my sore throat.

Where's my eye? I asked.

Oh, I have that, Brady said. Vincent gave it to me in a fucking jam jar. Are you sure you're not going to be sick?

I coughed, shook my head and looked at the broken stumps of my nails. Brady signaled again and moved back to the passing lane to overtake a truck.

Fuck me, he said. You don't remember last night, do you?

I stared at the vanishing point of the oncoming road and searched my mental records for a sequence of events to connect my last known memory of The Electric Ballroom with my present reality, riding shotgun in my husband's Range Rover.

We did Graham Norton, I said. Stormzy invited us out and I had drinks with Kate Nash. That's all.

Brady bit his lip, twisted his tight fists like he was wringing water from the Rover's steering wheel.

Oh no, he said. There's so much more. You vomited in the club. You started a fight with Liam Gallagher. Vincent got involved somehow and the bouncers put you both on the street.

A layer of frost surrounded my heart and shut it down.

Don't take my word for it, Brady said. Check TMZ, you're fucking trending. It's all part of the bloody public record now.

My stomach filled with acidic anxiety and broken glass.

Where's my phone? I asked.

Vincent must have had it at some point, Brady said. When we were carrying you to my car I realized you couldn't possibly have sent the thoughtful texts I received this morning, apologizing for being "such a bitch". Begging me to come fetch you from Peckham so we could "start fresh" in the country. So it was Vincent or his agent. The blonde bird who cleaned you up and got you dressed. Maybe she knows where your phone is.

The freezing chill of disbelief inside me fell another ten degrees.

Oh yeah, Brady said. Thank god for that woman, she actually bathed you after you shit yourself. You didn't know that? Yes. You shit yourself in the Uber and so far that's the only thing that's not been publicized. What's her name, Pinky? She paid your Uber driver two thousand pounds for damages and twice that amount again to keep him from selling his story to the tabloids. Pardon me, I've just got to add that to the growing list of expenses from your night on the town.

Brady raised his voice an octave and left himself a snotty voice-memo reminder to contact his solicitor and arrange six thousand pounds' reimbursement for Pinky.

So you've nothing to say about this? he asked. Nothing at all?

Brady locked his eyes on the road ahead.

Fuck, Margaret, he said. Just ... fuck, you know?

From the moment I met Brady I was careful to cloak my insecurities as an older woman with an aloof sophistication. I wanted him to appreciate the difference in our ages as a sort of artistic vintage. Something sexier than wisdom. Marlene Dietrich smoking in a top hat and tuxedo tails. Berlin between the wars.

Now I'd shown him the scared old bitch behind the curtain. A desperate bombed-out Berlin in 1945 with breadlines and rats and brigades of weary Trümmerfrauen passing broken bricks from hand to hand.

The worst part of Brady's confrontation was hearing him understudy my role, the one I wrote and rehearsed on countless mornings like this with Vincent. I'd recall his offenses in infuriating detail and he'd look at me blankly, like I was describing the actions of an imaginary friend. My rage only doubled when he issued a counterfeit apology for wrongdoings he couldn't possibly regret because he couldn't fucking remember doing them.

I reclined my seat. Turned my back to Brady and pretended to sleep as I dragged the murky depths of my memory, over and over, and came up with nothing.