ONE
Juliet raised her head an inch from the brocade sofa cushion and instantly regretted it. It was throbbing with pain and the room spun sickeningly. She dropped it again, feeling the raised pattern settle back into the grooves it had left on her cheek. Maybe she could just stay here for – oh, about a hundred years, until she felt better? But she couldfeelsomeone looking at her, and she opened her right eye a fraction to see who it could be. Her eye met two dark brown ones, staring at her keenly.
‘Oh, it’s you, Moriarty,’ she croaked, lifting a feeble hand to pat his head. He was a small, hairy black dog of indeterminate breed. ‘Morning. Ugh, I suppose I’d better get up…’
Hauling herself to a sitting position, she wiped away a little trickle of dribble from the side of her mouth and made sure to open both eyes. Then, under Moriarty’s confused gaze, she picked up a discarded circular silver tray from a large, buttoned leather pouffe, rubbed it with a corner of the cushion to wipe away the drinks rings and contemplated her smeary reflection. Good grief. Last night she had aimed for a Louise Brooks/vintage Hollywood sort of look, with her severe dark bob and pale skin, but today she looked more like a vampire in need of some blood. She tugged fruitlessly at her hair, which was eithersticking out at strange angles or stuck to her cushion-imprinted cheek, and peered at her blotchy skin. Lifting a tentative hand to her mouth, she huffed experimentally and recoiled at her own foul breath. No wonder poor Moriarty looked concerned. She groaned as the door opened. Who was it now?
‘Morning, Juliet.’
‘Oh,God, do youhaveto speak so loudly?’
It was her sisters, Martha and Frankie, both looking as appalling as she did, in their own way. Frankie probably pulled it off the best, as she usually rocked a sort of dishevelled chic anyway, with her short dyed blonde crop and uniform of torn jeans and band T-shirts. The shadows under her eyes were darker than usual, and her skin a sickly shade of greenish white, but her mischievous grin was undiminished. Martha was usually the freshest-looking of the three, with her innocent, rounded face and long chestnut hair with its fringe that she was permanently pushing away from her eyes, as she never got around to having it cut. Neither was dressed, but at least they had managed to crawl into pyjamas and not just pass out on the sofa fully clothed. Mind you, Juliet had done it in the most spectacular beaded and sequinned dress, hired for the occasion, which had helped to make her the undisputed belle of her Bright Young Things-themed party. Despite how she looked now, last night she had oozed chic.
‘Morning, girls.’ She winced as pain shot through her head. ‘Do you feel as bloody awful as I do?’
‘Worse,’ declared Frankie, producing a strip of tablets from her breast pocket – where, Juliet suspected, there was always useful medication of some sort or another – and popping two out into Juliet’s hand. ‘Whatwasin those cocktails? Happy birthday, by the way.’
‘Thanks. And God knows. Dad was pouring them, so it could have been almost anything.’
Martha lowered herself gingerly into a fraying tapestried armchair.
‘Happy birthday, Jools. Those cocktails were delicious but lethal. Oh, hello, Moriarty, come on up.’
He immediately sprang onto Martha’s lap and snuggled down with a sigh of pleasure. Juliet managed to raise a small smile at the sight of him so content there with her sister.
‘At least he’s happy, but I suppose he didn’t touch those poisonous cocktails.’
‘Sensible creature,’ said Frankie. ‘I wonder how many more of these I can take in one go?’ She inspected the strip of pills, then swallowed one. ‘I feel like I’ve been put through a giant mangle.’
Juliet was just about to lie down again to rest her still-aching head, when a pile of faux fur blankets in the corner suddenly moved and a man appeared, stared wildly around at them all, and then dashed from the room.
‘Who on earth was he?’ asked Frankie.
‘No idea.’ Juliet shrugged.
‘Well,’ said Frankie, going to the window. ‘Whoever he is, he’s off down the drive.’
The heavy oak door opened again, but this time a most welcome sight appeared.
‘Good morning, girls, and happy birthday, Juliet! You’re all looking radiant, I must say.’
Their aunt entered, carrying an enormous tray laden with breakfast, and grinning at the sorry state of her nieces. She was a slight woman, in her sixties, with elegant silver bobbed hair and kind eyes.
‘Morning, Aunt Sylvia.’ Juliet got up to help her with the tray, swiftly scooping the debris of glasses, napkins, a single pink satin glove and a man’s dress shirt collar off the pouffe so she could set it down.
‘Ooh, Aunt Sylvia, you knew just what we needed: carbs, carbs, fat and more carbs,’ said Frankie, eyeing up the tray greedily.
Looks like the pills have kicked in, thought Juliet, although she had to admit that whatever they were, they were starting to perk her up too. Even Martha, who had probably been suffering more than any of them as she almost never drank, was looking more cheerful at the sight of the heaving plates of buttered toast, hash browns, beans and clouds of scrambled eggs. A cafetière steamed gently and just the smell of the hot, fresh brew settled Juliet’s rolling tummy.
‘Come on then, girls, tuck in before it gets cold.’
Sylvia unstacked plates and cups as the three sisters gathered round to partake of the feast. Juliet would never normally eat so much – especially all those greasy, delicious carbs – but this hangover, and the fact that today was her actual birthday, demanded it. For a moment or two, they ate in silence, then Frankie let out a happy groan.
‘Aunt Sylvia, I don’t know how you do it. These scrambled eggs are delicious. Mine always go grey and rubbery.’
‘Thank you, dear. Is the food all right for you, Juliet?’ asked Sylvia, concerned. ‘You do look a bit green around the gills. You don’t feel sick, do you?’
Bless Aunt Sylvia, always so kind and observant, quite the opposite of how Juliet’s mother had been.
