couldnât be bothered to recycle â and tripping coming back up the drive⦠Oh bloody god. I grimaced, as far as I could grimace with my face planted on the drive⦠Giggling and thinking it was really funny and that Iâd just lie here for a while and have a little sleepâ¦
âAre you all right down there?â
âYes, thank you, Iâm okay.â I was a hundred percent sure I was not a pretty sight, but I wasnât hurt â booze and my curves meant I had bounced, probably, like a baby, before landing in my prone and highly compromising position. âIâve been up to London,â I said, like a female, inebriated Dick Whittington. âIâve had a few too many. Sorry. Iâm on your half of the drive.â
âThatâs okay. Do you need a hand up?â
âYes, please. That would be really kind.â Oh, the English politeness. It never fails, even at moments of extreme humiliation. Will held out his arms and heaved me up; no mean feat, considering I was carrying approximately four litres of booze and a Burger King Whopper meal about my person. When he was assured I could stand without collapsing to the ground again, he bent down and retrieved the lost half of my footwear.
âYour boot,â he said, holding it out.
âRight. Thanks.â
He stood smiling at me; I stood, trying not to fall over.
âHave you got work in the morning? Rather, this morning?
âYes. Yes, I have.â
âAnd have you got your keys?â
âI think so.â My keys had been in the pocket of my thick, padded coat, out for duty early this year as it had been a very chilly October. I rummaged in both pockets. When my left hand (without wedding ring â it felt weird) located them, on their fluffy pink, feathery, glittery key-chain thingy, I pulled them out and shook them in the air to prove Iâd really got them.
âThere you go,â he smiled. âFantastic.â
He saw me to the door, which must have banged shut in the night, and watched me open it and step inside.
âThanks, Will,â I said.
âAny time, although I donât mean any time. I donât know you very well, but I presume you wonât be doing this too oftenâ¦â
âI donât think so,â I said meekly. âAs it is rather embarrassing.â
He smiled again. âGood night, Daryl.â
âGood night, Will. Thank you so much.â
I staggered upstairs. The horror. Oh, the absolute horror. I couldnât bear to think about it. I decided I couldnât think about it. Not now. I could be mortified and apologetic in the morning. Now, I had to sleep.
I woke up feeling like death warmed up in a petri dish. The radio alarm, set to Eighties FM, woke me at seven and I was furious at it. How dare Madonna and her âMaterial Girlâ aspirations interrupt my comatose slumber? I needed eight hours more sleep. I needed carbs and painkillers. I needed a new liver⦠I staggered to the bathroom and was horrified by what I saw. Blonde, short hair sticking up all over the place â all pretence of perky Marilyn Monroe coquettishness gone. A pasty face with make-up smears down it. And panda eyes that wouldnât look out of place at London Zoo. Gone were the days when a hangover made me look dishevelled-ly pretty and enigmatic; I just looked a wreck.
I flopped back into bed. Just fifteen more minutes. Just to get my brain in gear. Oh god. I remembered everything. But mostly waking up on the drive and Will discovering me lying there. What on earth must he think of me? He already thought I was a bit of a nut job. Iâd moved in just over a week ago, last Saturday to be exact, and heâd already caught me admiring his bum, taking a giant stuffed whale out to someoneâs skip and stuffing lemon drizzle cake in my face at two a.m.
Heâd made the lemon drizzle. Well, I presume he had; Iâd have to ask him. The morning
âAre you all right down there?â
âYes, thank you, Iâm okay.â I was a hundred percent sure I was not a pretty sight, but I wasnât hurt â booze and my curves meant I had bounced, probably, like a baby, before landing in my prone and highly compromising position. âIâve been up to London,â I said, like a female, inebriated Dick Whittington. âIâve had a few too many. Sorry. Iâm on your half of the drive.â
âThatâs okay. Do you need a hand up?â
âYes, please. That would be really kind.â Oh, the English politeness. It never fails, even at moments of extreme humiliation. Will held out his arms and heaved me up; no mean feat, considering I was carrying approximately four litres of booze and a Burger King Whopper meal about my person. When he was assured I could stand without collapsing to the ground again, he bent down and retrieved the lost half of my footwear.
âYour boot,â he said, holding it out.
âRight. Thanks.â
He stood smiling at me; I stood, trying not to fall over.
âHave you got work in the morning? Rather, this morning?
âYes. Yes, I have.â
âAnd have you got your keys?â
âI think so.â My keys had been in the pocket of my thick, padded coat, out for duty early this year as it had been a very chilly October. I rummaged in both pockets. When my left hand (without wedding ring â it felt weird) located them, on their fluffy pink, feathery, glittery key-chain thingy, I pulled them out and shook them in the air to prove Iâd really got them.
âThere you go,â he smiled. âFantastic.â
He saw me to the door, which must have banged shut in the night, and watched me open it and step inside.
âThanks, Will,â I said.
âAny time, although I donât mean any time. I donât know you very well, but I presume you wonât be doing this too oftenâ¦â
âI donât think so,â I said meekly. âAs it is rather embarrassing.â
He smiled again. âGood night, Daryl.â
âGood night, Will. Thank you so much.â
I staggered upstairs. The horror. Oh, the absolute horror. I couldnât bear to think about it. I decided I couldnât think about it. Not now. I could be mortified and apologetic in the morning. Now, I had to sleep.
I woke up feeling like death warmed up in a petri dish. The radio alarm, set to Eighties FM, woke me at seven and I was furious at it. How dare Madonna and her âMaterial Girlâ aspirations interrupt my comatose slumber? I needed eight hours more sleep. I needed carbs and painkillers. I needed a new liver⦠I staggered to the bathroom and was horrified by what I saw. Blonde, short hair sticking up all over the place â all pretence of perky Marilyn Monroe coquettishness gone. A pasty face with make-up smears down it. And panda eyes that wouldnât look out of place at London Zoo. Gone were the days when a hangover made me look dishevelled-ly pretty and enigmatic; I just looked a wreck.
I flopped back into bed. Just fifteen more minutes. Just to get my brain in gear. Oh god. I remembered everything. But mostly waking up on the drive and Will discovering me lying there. What on earth must he think of me? He already thought I was a bit of a nut job. Iâd moved in just over a week ago, last Saturday to be exact, and heâd already caught me admiring his bum, taking a giant stuffed whale out to someoneâs skip and stuffing lemon drizzle cake in my face at two a.m.
Heâd made the lemon drizzle. Well, I presume he had; Iâd have to ask him. The morning