But as last night was our first time in our own place, I did initiate a make-out session with him. So far, all our kisses had been a little chaste, and I wanted him to know I’m into him. I needed to bring some more sexual energy into this flat, if thismarriage is going to survive. I like sex, I think it’s important, I just… I need him to know it’s coming, so to speak.
Poor choice of words, perhaps.
‘Just like Warren and Dolly,’ points out Lucas. ‘I guess you guys are more alike than we thought.’
This comparison makes me want to sink into whatever hole Lina has fallen into. I reach for her hand under the table, and she squeezes back gently, but drops mine after a moment. What is going on with her? I’m really worried, and I can’t work out what is going on with all the talking and noise and cutlery and eating.
There’s another round of questions, this time about wedding planning logistics. I’m relieved that I need to wee because that means I can have a sensory break in the bathroom. I excuse myself politely, kissing Patrick on the cheek as I go, and I make my way to the loos on the other side of the restaurant.
The disabled bathroom is occupied from the flushing I hear through the door, but no one else is in the ladies’, so I can sit in silence for a few minutes, feeling the rush in my brain slow. I’m glad there’s no one else in here to use the hand dryer – often the worst sound in the entire world, even if it is useful to cover when you’re doing a sneaky poo.
The strange thing is that Dolly isn’t in here. When I wash my hands at the mirrored sink, I spy that all the stall doors are open. It’s frustrating to be always on high alert for her, like my senses are always primed to find her.
As I step out of the women’s bathroom, I hear a moan from the disabled loo. Not to be indelicate, but I would recognise that voice anywhere, even if the cadence of the moan is much more distressed than I’ve previously heard.
I knock on the door. ‘Dolly?’
There’s a muffled groan, generally not a good kind of sound.
‘Dolly, are you alright?’
The thing about working on a city farm frequented byschoolchildren is that someone is always having some kind of health emergency, and so I’m fighting all my training and instincts if I don’t help her out. There might not be time to get someone else if this is serious.
And I’d rather embarrass us both than risk leaving her unwell in there.
The one thing I’ve learned about using disabled loos myself over the years to avoid the chorus of hand dryers on a bad day is that often the locks aren’t that good and are liable to open, even with a RADAR key,evenif you’ve locked it from the inside.
I test the handle, and a slight gap appears.
Propriety is out the window when someone is poorly, so I feebly knock as I open the door, just to create as much noise as possible so that she knows I’m coming in. ‘I’m coming in,’ I call.
There’s no reply.
Dolly is on the floor, slumped over the toilet, her long frame folded over the seat.
The door bangs against the wall as I fling it fully open and push it closed behind me.
‘Dolly?’ I rush to her side and I am so relieved when she moves.
She makes a noise that isn’t quite words. Her lovely new dress is slick to her back with sweat.
I try not to let my mind get carried away with the fact that this is a public toilet and she’s touching so much gross stuff, because she’s obviously not okay and that’s more important.
‘Dolly! You’re sick?’ I mean it more as a statement, but my voice goes all squeaky and it comes out very questiony right as Dolly yaks something up.
I have to spin round, plug my nose and blow out my cheeks so I don’t accidentally breathe in the smell and gip. The last thing we need is me going too. That happened once at the farm. We don’t speak of it.
She sits up, which is a relief, and wipes her mouth with a crumpled square of toilet paper. ‘What gave it away?’ she groans.
Oh my, she looks awful. Well, she still looks like Dolly underneath, but her face is grey, with deep purple blotches under her eyes. I’m not sure if she tried to wash off her makeup or just sweated it off, but it’s almost all gone. There’s a greenish tinge to her, vomit aside. Just a general swampy look.
I perch on my heels, trying to ignore the smell of vomit. ‘Lean back a second,’ I say, and she does without talking back. I close the lid and flush the loo, which removes that little problem for now. Just to be safe, I reopen the lid.
‘Can a woman not vomit in private?’ she growls. ‘How did you even get in here?’
‘Broke in,’ I say, ignoring her growls.
This is the nice kind of restaurant where they have not just hand soap but hand cream, and soft tissues. I take a wad and fold it into cushiony squares to replace the gross bit of tissue in her hand, which I drop in the toilet. I run another under the cold tap, just enough to dampen the sheets.
