“It's my superper? Superper. Suuuperpuhpuh. Oh Jesus, what’s the word? Su-per-POW-er! Nailed it!” I slap the table.
“Fuck me, where is this burger?” Jaime shakes her head at me. “We can't leave your text at that, though. I'm just telling himyou want to talk when he drops Lizzie off in the morning,” she taps away on my mobile. “There, now the ball will be in your extremely hungover court.”
I squint at my screen as it lights up with a response.
Brad: ominous. Everything ok?
Shari: Yeppers! We'll just have a little chatty chat chat in the morning
Brad: I feel like you'll be hungover for this chatty chat chat How much have you had to drink? And how are you getting home tonight? You need me to come get you?
“Ughhhh, why's he so perfect!” I bang my head on the table, a little harder than planned. “Ow. How are we getting home?” comes my muffled question.
“Theo's giving us all a lift, he owes me for all the years of being the best big sister ever.”
Shari: Elle's brother is dropping us all home later. I'm all good in the hoof.
Shari: Hoof
Shari: Hoof!
Shari: Fucking H O O D!!!
Brad: I'm dying
Shari: Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up Bradvertisement
Brad: Yet that one you can spell. Text me when you get home safe
There'sa construction zone happening in my head. Or maybe little, angry, privileged white males are tap dancing on my brain. Whilst wearing football boots. And carrying all their gold bars. Why this is my immediate imagery, I don't know.
I bravely crack one eye open, only to immediately rue the decision. Apparently, I forgot to close the curtains before I passed out last night, so the sun is streaming in, lasering its hellish focus directly on my face.
Rolling over with a pained grumble, I check my phone for the time. Eight in the morning, and I already have twelve message notifications. I can't even deal with them right now. But I do need to pee.
It takes a couple of minutes for me to stand up without crying, and I shuffle my way to the bathroom, avoiding my reflection until after I've evacuated my bladder.
When I do finally look up at the mirror, I wish I hadn't. I look like a racoon. That drowned. And was resuscitated, only to be run over by a bin lorry and dragged along behind it for several miles.Fuck. Me.
I brush my teeth and tongue – twice – to get rid of the brewery trying to set up camp in my mouth, but I don't even bother attempting to tame my maniacal hair. I'm only getting this nest to look normal by washing the absolute shit out of it.
Just as I'm about to turn on the shower, the sudden trill of my doorbell – accompanied by Pickles’ loudest howl-bark to date – sends my pulse into overdrive. For a moment, I’m so off-kilter as to who could possibly be at my door that I completely forget myself and rush downstairs to open it. Instant regret hits when I see Brad's horrified yet amused expression, because I remember exactly what I just saw in the mirror.
Banging my forehead on the edge of the door, I croak, “Ouch. Oh god. Ok, let it out, I can see you valiantly trying to hold in your laughter. Just...let it out.”
And boy, does he laugh. “I’m…sorry, Blaze...but you just...you didn't...when you had morning sickness...you didn't even...look...I can't breathe!” He can barely get any words out between laughs and tears are streaming down his face. I take Lizzie from him and hide my burgeoning smile in her hair. His humour is contagious, even if it is at my expense.
Furiously wiping at his eyes, he slaps his cheeks a couple of times to try and stop himself from restarting the chuckle train. “I’m sorry,” he chokes back another laugh, “I just wasn't expecting it. The look on your face, and your hair, and the smudged makeup,” another rogue laugh escapes, “I’m good, I'm done. Why don't you hop in the shower and I'll get coffee and little madam sorted?”
“Deal,” I say, placing Lizzie on the floor to run riot with the dog, “please sort Pickles too, I don't know if you can tell, but I've only just got up,” I add, sardonically. I hear him choke on another laugh as I walk away with my middle finger high above my head.
By the time I've showered, brushed my teethagain,and downed some paracetamol, I'm finally feeling human enough to face the world. First things first, check my phone for any behaviour that might warrant an apology.
Most of my messages are the girls sounding off their goodnights and laughing at my drunken stupor – why are there photos? I need new friends. But a message from Brad that came through at seven a.m. stands out like a sore thumb.
Brad: Morning Mama. How's your head today? Looking forward to finding out what our 'chatty chat chat' is about. We'll see you soon!
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