Authors: Kirsty Greenwood
TEXT FROM: DIONNE
If u don’t want to babysit you could just tell me. Don’t have to ignore me. U R soooo selfish!
It’s Saturday morning and I can honestly say that I have never, ever before experienced a hangover like the one that is happening to me right now.
I was cruelly awakened about five minutes ago by my own headache. It feels like John McEnroe is playing tennis with my brain. While my brain is still in my head. Even my earlobes hurt, and it’s not because of the cheapo Claire’s Accessories earrings I’ve been wearing recently.
I peel back my sticky eyelids and fear grips my heart.
Where the pickle am I?
I blink a few times and take in my surroundings.
I am in a strange bed. I gasp and check the space beside me. No-one. Phew.
The room is small and chintzy. It’s decorated with pink rose-patterned wallpaper, and across from the bed there’s a matching flowery couch, with what appears to be a net curtain draped over the back. It smells like lavender furniture polish. In the corner an open door leads to a tiny bathroom.
I notice a little leaflet lying on the bedside cabinet. I rub my eyes
and pick it up -
“
The Old Whimsy Bed & Breakfast, Little Trooley
”
.
Oh.
The events of yesterday slam straight back into my head. Ouch.
Oh dear.
Oh dear.
The last thing I remember was Meg and I acting out a scene from
The Fabulous Baker Boys.
She was lying on the bar, singing
Makin
Whoopee
like Michelle Pfeiffer and I was miming playing the piano on some drip trays. Oh balls. When did I get to bed?
How
did I get to bed?
I delicately turn my head this way and that, trying to locate my phone and trying not to vom. I notice it lying on the floor on top of my ripped and muddy trews.
9 Missed Calls
.
3 Unread Text Messages
.
1 New Voicemail.
I scroll through the missed calls list. Three are from Dionne, one is from Olly and the rest are from Mum.
Shit. Mum will have been expecting me back last night. She must be frantic! How on earth could I have forgotten to ring her and let her know where I was?
I dial the voicemail number and listen.
“
Hiya, it’s your mum. Why is your phone off? Did you get the checklist I sent you?...
I thought you were cooking tea tonight. You could have let me know you were staying at Olly’s. I’m left on my own now. See you tonight.
”
Okay, not frantic, per se.
I answer the questions in her messag
e out loud, although there’s no
one around to hear me. Which brings my thoughts around to the hypnotism and Amazing Brian. I have to find him today if it’s the last thing I do. And it may well be the last thing I do considering my inability to process this hangover.
Groaning, I slide out of the bed and
- not feeling up to walking just yet
- crawl across the carpet into the bathroom. Stepping gingerly into the bath I turn on the shower overhead and breathe deeply as the hot stream of water massages my poor, dehydrated head.
I pick up a small glass bottle off the shelf beside the bath.
Mr Harrington's Homemad
e Shampoo. Mint & Rosemary Made From S
cratch!
Who in this world is Mr Harrington? And why is he making shampoo?
I unscrew the cap and take a tentative sniff, but my left nostril still isn’t working properly and it doesn’t seem to have much of a smell.
I shrug my shoulders and squirt the shampoo onto my hair, impressed by how zealously it lathers up.
While doing my shower type business I set to thinking. It only hurts a little bit.
I need to come up with a master plan. Not the easiest thing to do when all of my brain power is focused on not dying of a hangover, right here in the shower. But I try my best to make a mental to-do list.
1.
Locate Brian Fernando.
2.
Shout at him for hypnotising me without even asking and potentially ruining my life.
3.
Make him unhypnotise me as quickly as possible.
4.
Get back ability to lie and make things up with Olly.
5.
Not that I want to lie to Olly. I just don’t want to be brutally honest with him about things that should be firmly locked inside my mind, like sex stuff and niggly little things that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.
6.
Get married to Olly (all the while ignoring the fact that I’m wearing the world’s most horrendous dress).
7.
Live a simple, peaceful, happy existence for ever and ever, the end.
That seems like a good enough start.
I step out of the shower, dry myself off and just as I’m about to pull on yesterday’s torn and bedraggled outfit, I notice a little pile of fresh clothes resting on the end of the bed.
Huh? They weren’t there before.
I pick them up. A bright white button up shirt and a pair of soft navy joggers. I inspect them. They are massive, far too big for me, which is a new experience. I glance over at my see-through
Goonies
t-shirt and ripped grey pants. The fresh giant sized clothes in front of me are the lesser of two evils and so I shrug and pull them on. The sleeves of the shirt fall down way past my arms, it makes me feel all dainty like Kylie, but isn’t entirely practical, so I roll them up to my elbows. I do the same with the jogging bottoms, which luckily have elastic around the bottom, and stay in place on my shins.
I can’t find a comb in the room, and the only cosmetic I have with me is an iridescent
lip
gloss covered in handbag fluff. So I run m
y fingers through my towel
dried hair, pinch my cheeks in an attempt to put some colour into my corpse-pale face and head out of the room to find Meg.
After an expedition that sees me making various false turns into a storage cupboard and a ladies bathroom, I finally find my wa
y into the main pub. There’s no
one about. It seems oddly quiet now that it’s closed, like a ghost pub. I spot a fresh-faced Meg sat alone at a table by the bar, vehemently tucking into some scrambled eggs.
“
Urgggh!
”
I groan as I approach.
“
I feel very bad and sicky.
”
“
You look like crap,
”
she says kindly, biting into a thick piece of toast.
“
Want some?
”
“
Yes. I could eat a scabby horse.
”
I help myself to a piece of toast and take an enormous bite. Oh yum. Hobbs thick farmhouse white smothered in creamy butter – just how I like it. I pour myself a glass of fresh orange juice from the jug on the table and down it in one, not caring as it dribbles down my chin.
“
Man, I’m thirsty!
”
I say, downing another glass.
“
I’ve been up for ages,
”
says Meg brightly.
“
I even went for a walk. It’s gorgeous around here.
”
“
Good for you.
”
How can she not by dying of a hangover? She drank far more than me and yet here she is, hair in a perky ponytail, looking all healthy and zesty and stuff.
“
Where’s your lovah?
”
I tease.
At this, Meg’s face flushes.
“
He works at the Hobbs factory up in the hills so left at stupid o’clock to go and bake bread.
”
“
You sound upset. Do you miss him? Do you lurve him? Do you wanna mawwy him?
”
“
As if,
”
she shakes her head.
“
I was glad not to have to see him in the sober light of day. Oh God. I’m mortified at myself. At least I’ll never have to see him again.
”
“
You slept with him, then?
”
She covers her face with silver ringed hands.
“
I didn’t even properly fancy him. Ugh. I’m such a big, fat hussy.
”
“
Of course you’re not.
”
She raises her eyebrows, questioning.
“
Natty, do you think I’m a hussy?
”
“
No!
”
I say at once.
“
See? The absolute truth!
”
She looks mollified. That’s the first time this stupid
truth-tell
ing has actually done some good.
“
To be fair,
”
she reasons,
“
I’ve not had sex in seven months, so I was due a blow-out.
”
“
So to speak.
”
“
Ew. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t think I was thinking at all. Anyway, let us never mention it again
-
”
“
But -
”
“
Mr Francis in the Art Studio, Mr Francis in the Art Studio!
”
“
FINE. We shall never speak of it again.
”
“
Good,
”
she grins, finishing up her eggs.
“
Nice outfit by the way, masculine, but cute.
”
“
It’s my new look,
”
I say, fingering the soft Daz white linen of the too-big s
hirt.
“
It’s f
rom the man-
dwarf chic collection at Sak’s, New Yoik
. Thanks for leaving them on my bed. How did you get hold of them?
“
“
I didn’t leave them for you.
”
“
Oh... I just assumed…
”
“
So you found them, then?
”
says a deep Yorkshire voice from behind me.
I spin around and see Riley walking towards us holding a tray upon which lies a bright yellow teapot and all the related tea making paraphernalia. His hair is still wet, presumably from the shower, and he’s dressed in a soft chocolate brown knitted sweater and worn pale blue jeans that stretch distractedly over his muscular thighs.
It suddenly occurs to me that it’s his shirt and joggers that I’m dressed in.
“
Oh. You put them there,
”
I say to him.
“
Er, thank you.
”
“
No problem. I thought with the others being ripped, you know…?
”
“
Yes. Of course.
”
What a thoughtful thing to do. Or was it a weirdly
intimate
thing to do? I smile at him as he places the tray before us, but the smile turns into a grimace as my head throbs even harder. I route around in my bag for painkillers and neck two with some juice.
“
I did ask Honey to bring some clothes over today,
”
he goes on,
“
but she said that her stuff would be far too small for you.
”
He innocently pours tea into cups, oblivious to the insinuation.
“
Well. Of course. Obviously…
”
I mutter.
“
Honey’s teeny.
”
“
How long have you two been together?
”
Meg asks, helping herself to a cup of tea, while Riley sits down at the table.
“
She just turned up in the village about six months ago looking for a job. We've been dating ever since
”
“
Six months. Pretty serious then,
”
I muse out loud.
“
Are you getting married? I’m getting married. In four weeks. Christmas Eve, actually.
”
I’m not sure why I told him that. It seemed important to get it out there.
“
To Olly,
”
he says looking directly at me.
How does he know that?! My face screws up in confusion.
“
You told us last night,
”
Riley says brightly.
“
You told us
everything
, remember?
”