I put down my shoes, chuck Val’s jacket onto a chair and take the towel from Henry. It’s cold and heavy in my hand.
‘Has he whiteyed?’ I ask.
‘Yes, on the way over,’ says Emma. ‘Do you think we should call Dr Henderson?’
‘No, that’ll only lead to trouble.’ And I know what to do.
Omar budges up as I perch next to Sinclair on the bed. He’s leaning with his back against the wall now.
‘Hey.’ Great. He’s not reacting. But at least he groans quietly when I press the wet towel onto his forehead. His head sinks intomy hand. ‘You’re a right eejit,’ I mumble. I mean, what the hell? What’s he gone and fucked himself up like this for?
‘I think he blacked out for a bit, Tori.’ Emma’s voice is shaking. I get that. It’s rough to see something like this for the first time, but so long as you take care of a few things, it’ll all turn out all right.
‘If he’s whiteyed, he should be feeling better soon.’ I put my fingers under his chin. His head is heavy, but his skin is soft. When Sinclair blinks, I feel kind of jittery. His eyes are blue and drunken. I get goosebumps as he mumbles my name with a heavy tongue.
‘So,’ I say, putting the cold towel on the back of his neck, ‘what the hell?’
‘What?’
‘All this. You’re steaming, and you’re ruining everyone’s evening.’
Sinclair leans his head against the wall as I loosen his tie. Bet he didn’t even hear me.
‘Was a shite evening anyway,’ he mumbles.
My fingers turn to ice. He looks at me but his eyelids are heavy. I undo his top buttons and lob the tie at Henry. He hangs it over the back of the chair and puts an arm round Emma.
‘You guys can go. I’ll stay,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’ Henry asks quietly.
‘If I need help, I’ll get you,’ I promise.
‘We’ll only be next door,’ Emma says right away.
I grin despite myself. ‘I know.’
Henry studies me. He seems to be torn because he wants to be a good pal, but then he turns and follows Emma out. Gideon and Omar look more relieved to be able to leave the room. And suddenly it’s just Sinclair and me.
‘Why was it shite?’ I ask, once they’ve shut the door.
Sinclair’s turned away again and he jumps. ‘Hm?’
‘The evening,’ I repeat. ‘Why was it shite?’
‘Women,’ he mumbles. ‘I’m tired . . .’
‘I know but you have to drink this water before you can go to sleep.’
‘Tori . . .’ He sighs.
‘No, not open to negotiation. Sorry, but you should have thought about this before drinking your brains out.’
He groans but takes the bottle. Less water ends up on his shirt than I’d been expecting.
‘Clothes off!’ I order, as I notice the vomit on them.
‘I’m drunk,’ he grumbles.
