Part One, early 80s, Helen Fleet is an undergraduate, not yet ill.
In my first year at uni, I commuted, thought nothing of the mile walk to the train station - why would I?
I met Hadi at the beginning of the second term. He was Libyan and had his own flat and a fat black cat called Blue because she liked the blues. When Hadi had the munchies he would overfeed her, tipping Whiskas onto a saucer, tapping the spoon against the rim to get her attention: Come on, fat lady, come to eat! Hadi hardly ever went to his engineering lectures and got his friends to photocopy their notes for him.
His erection was bent like banana and he rolled his eyes when he came. I thought this was normal. The third time we had sex he complained about using Durex ('stupid skins') and said I should go on the pill. I told him I wouldn't have sex without a condom because I didn't know his history. He pouted and accused me of being clinical about love. When I finished with him at the end of term, he kicked over the rubber plant I'd got him and called me a prick-tease. I told him I was tired of his moods and tired of him shovelling cat food into Blue. I told him I was tired of listening to J. J. Cale. When I tried to leave the flat, he said he'd kill himself. A couple of weeks later, I saw him with his arm round a girl in the Grosvenor Cafe. I half smiled, but he blanked me.