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deficit; it can’t unwind because it’s not relaxed. You need to eat more throughout the day; it’s just about meeting your energy requirements. If you ate regularly, your body would be able to relax at night and switch off. Don’t you think?” He was closer than he realized, of course, and I nodded, awkward and silent. Of course it seems obvious now, but this was the first time we’d discussed it; I felt unmasked, as if he’d been reading my thoughts.
    I explained to Tom, as if I were being rational, that I had lost the ability to sleep. And I couldn’t stand up or go back to bed, I couldn’t go downstairs to the breakfast room, because I simply couldn’t go on . . . After listening to this monotone patiently hefinally took control, marched into the bathroom, and ran me a bubble bath.
    It’s miraculous the way something as simple as a cup of coffee or a hot bath can rescue us at a moment of real crisis. Otherwise how would we go on? I think this is what separates humans from animals.
    I lay back in the bath and Tom closed the door. I could hear him through the wall, straightening up the bedroom. (I would feel guilty except that I have tidied so many hotel rooms after him—wet towels on bathroom floors and bedrooms littered with wine glasses.) I was ashamed of myself, uneasy with the night’s events. I wasn’t used to showing anyone my weakness. I soaked the washcloth in the hot scented water and brought it to my face, pressed down on my cheeks and forehead, massaged my aching eye sockets. It was dark and warm beneath the damp compress. I wanted to stay in that bath, eyes closed, hiding from it all. It was just a hot bath, but it saved me.
    When I was wrapped in a white bathrobe and sitting on the newly made bed, Tom went downstairs for a breakfast tray, carefully selecting foods he knew I could eat. In a parallel universe—the world without anorexia—I would start the day with Danish pastries or croissants, buttered toast and raspberry jam, nutty bread or sourdough or oven-warm rolls. Yes, I love food—I love the same delicious food as everyone else. But I can’t eat it.
    Instead I had gallons of coffee and a plate of fruit: chunks of pineapple, sliced kiwi, and strawberries. I realized how good it tasted and how dehydrated I was from lack of food and sleep. Tom checked that I had enough coffee and then ate quickly: two slices of toast and a brown roll with cheese and ham.
    How come he could eat? This is one of those stupid petulant thoughts you have with an eating disorder: Why is he so greedy? How does he eat all that lovely food and stay slim while I have to starve myself? You crunch grimly through another apple, not thinking clearly about the fact that no one is stopping you from eating; in fact they would do anything to feed you those healthy foods too.
    After breakfast we sat on the bed in our bathrobes talking, our heads resting together against the pillows. Tom reminded me of the positives, all the good stuff in life, everything we have to look forward to. For the first time he talked about children. “Remember how much you love babies; just think of how wonderful it will be when you have one of your own.” I realized we were talking about having babies together, and my heart banged hard against my chest. Tom continued, “At the airport yesterday, remember that family and their children—when I watched you playing with that tiny baby, I’d never seen anything so beautiful, Em. And I’ve seen you with Katie’s children”—my big sister Katie has three children, two girls and a newborn boy. “I’ve seen you holding baby Theo and I know you’ll be such a natural mother.”
    I didn’t want to ruin that moment, for it was special, but I knew I had to tell him the truth. I managed to murmur something that I knew Tom needed to know, something to the effect that I can’t necessarily have babies at