Frankie's always been into drugs. She's never been one to shy away from pills or a line and certainly not weed. Everything in moderation, she thinks.

(Sadie goes overboard on everything and when she offers Frankie drink after drink and drug after drug, she can't say no.)

She doesn't exactly remember stumbling onto the roof. One minute she was chasing down pills with expensive champagne and laughing into sloppy kisses, next thing she knows she's out in the cold and the dark with tiny rain drops blowing into her face.

She could be dead in a second. Actually dead. She doesn't even exist to begin with. Her entire life is a lie. She's not Francesca Alan. Francesca Alan is dead.

All it would take is one step. A push or a shove. A sudden, strong gust of wind. A startling noise.

No one would miss her. Cat has Sam, Jay has Becky, Tess is still loved up over Lou and Ed's never really been all that fond of her to being with.

And Sadie...

Sadie's the reason she's up here to begin with and Frankie doesn't care how childish that thought makes her seem.

(Always a fuck up, always after something to distract her from her own shit.)

All it is with her is drugs and booze and sex followed by more of the same. She certainly wouldn't be precariously balanced on a rooftop if she was sober, even mildly so.

The door opening doesn't startle her, just grabs her attention from the wet street below.

"Frankie, what the fuck are you doing?" Frankie flounders, her heartbeat loud in her ears. "Get off the roof you fucking twat." Frankie hesitates, her body sluggish and clumsily climbs down. Sadie rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Come on then. 'ow long's it been since you had a bubble bath?" she asks with a laugh.

If there's a jibe in her words, Frankie doesn't notice. Instead, she shoves Sadie against the wet bricks and attacks her lips and neck with teeth and tongue. Sadie claws into her jacket and writhes in the small space between Frankie's body and the wall.

(Frankie thinks of Cat, and remembers the differences between her and Sadie.)

She doesn't know what comes over her in the bath. It has to be the most perverse thing she's ever said or done. She blames it on the drink and the coke and the pills.

She blames them for calling Sadie her girlfriend, too, and tries to quash down the mixed feeling of satisfaction and guilt that rises up in her chest at the look of hurt that flashes across Cat's face.

Sadie's no good for her, she tells herself, she needs to stop seeing her.

She knows she won't.