‘Sorry if it’s a little cold,’ I say, as I dab very gently at the back of Dolly’s neck. I have to hold up the ends of her bob, and I try to ignore the strange mix of feelings that come with touching her again.
‘How many times were you sick?’
She grumbles, eyes still closed. ‘A few.’
‘And when did it start?’
‘Are you trying to first aid me?’
‘Yes.’
She says a word I absolutely don’t catch, and then adds, ‘Five minutes ago.’
‘Do you think you’ve got any more in the tank?’
‘I hope not. We’re already down to bile.’ She slumps in deep exhaustion. ‘Potentially.’
‘Noted. I need to take your pulse. Is that okay?’
She mumbles something I think is ayes, and I slide my fingers along her neck, feeling the little burst of life under the skin. I try to focus, and count the beats. Her pulse is a bit fluttery, perhaps a tad too fast, but nothing worrying.
The last time I touched her here was with my mouth, and from the colour, I think I left a mark.
I notice her mic pack is on the floor, turned off. Why hasn’t anyone come to check on her?
‘Is it something you ate?’ I ask.
‘I doubt it.’
I try to make my voice as neutral as possible when I ask, ‘Do you think you drank too much? Was it on an empty stomach?’
She looks up at me under heavy lids. ‘If you go peer in my glass, you’ll see it’s as full as it was at the start of the night.’
‘You’ve been fake toasting?’
‘Real toasting. Fake sipping. I guess it goes along with the fake marriage.’
‘I… well, I’m going to guess you aren’t pregnant?’
Dolly gives me a very hard look.
I can’t help but huff a single note of laughter. ‘Do you want me to get Warren?’
‘He should be here any moment. We have an agreement. You can go.’
I linger because, well, things between us aren’t exactly fine and dandy but also she looks like a rain-soaked Big Mac – once beautiful, now all kind of bloated and melting. That feels uncharitable to say, but shereallydoes look dreadful. If I still actively hated her quite as much as I did earlier this week, I’d be enjoying it.
Now I just hate myself more.
‘I’ll keep an eye on you until then,’ I say, my various instincts warring.
It’s a good thing I do stay because another rush of vomit comes out of her. I stroke her back, relieved that this time my senses aren’t quite so overcome because I was expecting it.
‘Fuck, I hate being sick,’ she growls.
‘I think it’s safe to let go of the toilet.’
Dolly recoils. ‘That was a little overly intimate, wasn’t it?’
