‘Maybe,’ I reply, not committing to anything.
‘Must dash. See you Christmas morning?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Ciao!’
Putting down my phone, I stare at my cheese board next to me before slicing off a sliver of Brie. I push the wooden tray farther along the couch and wash the strange taste away with my wine.I’m definitely coming down with something,I think, because cheese is up there with my favourites, along with chocolate and wine. My glass of pinot doesn’t taste great either, so I swap it for my laptop. And like a small pain I can’t stop poking, I pull up Greg’s website. Yet again.
There are images of projects completed; stately homes and hotels, smaller projects in homes. Photographs of a smiling Greg and his small team, all wearing dark polo shirts embroidered with the name of his company. He looks the same as he did at the beginning of the month. So handsome. So fine. But also too nice to bethatkind of man. The douche. The man who doesn’t care. But then I recall the mugs of boozy hot chocolate and the man who received a bottle of liqueur as a Christmas present from an elderly client.
Is he a man of many faces or just two? I can’t decide.
Annoyed, I click on the “Contact Us” tab as my small Christmas tree mocks my neediness from the corner of my living room. Then I begin filling out the form.
YOUR NAME:Ms Nunyur Beeswax
YOUR EMAIL:[emailprotected]
SUBJECT:How long have you got? Not a euphemism, by the way.
HOW MAY WE HELP YOU?:
They who wants to lick the honey must not shy away from the bee, you said. Who’s shy now, arsehole! You didn’t even check that I got home.
I’m not going to send it. Of course, I’m not. Only a nut job would do something so ridiculous. Only a nut job would—
Oops!
I raise my index finger from theenterkey, swapping it out for my middle finger as I give Greg’s website the big ole bird. Then I push my laptop away, bringing the cheese board closer once again. I’m determined not to waste the stuff.Even if the whiff of it is making me feel a bit ill.’Tis the season to overindulge, after all. And maybe the stomach ache will give me something else to concentrate on.
I intend to eat and drink, even if I can’t quite manage merry component as I lie across the sofa to watch some rubbish Christmas broadcast on the TV. I even sing along with carols, giving one or two of them my own twist.
‘Come he told me, pa-rup-a-pum-pum... stick it up your bum.’
With the cheeseboard balanced on my stomach, I drop a grape into my mouth, but that doesn’t taste right either. Spitting it out, I swap it for a cracker, which, while tasting a little like carboard, isn’t quite so offensive. I take another swig of my wine, and I don’t know anything else until I wake up Christmas Eve morning to the sound of an ambulance whizzing under my living room window.
With a groan, I sit still feeling a little queasy, my head aching. But that could be the wine. I look at the bottle and decide that’s not it. I’ve barely had a glass of the stuff. As I yawn, I decide I don’t appreciate my rude awakening or the fact that I’ve managed to sleep a whole night because, quite frankly, I still feel like poop.
I must be brewing some kind of virus.
As I stand gingerly, I realise I have a lump of Camembert stuck in my hair.
It would only happen to me.
My fingers come away from the strands covered in a stinky, creamy, gluey goo, and before I know it, I’m sprinting for the bathroom, what little I’d eaten last night almost spurting from between the fingertips I clasp to my mouth.
‘Oh, God.’
My head thumps, and I need a shower, but I barely have the energy to stand from the bowl. But I do manage to pull myself up, my fingers wrapped around the basin. I take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror as that post-vomit bout of euphoria kicks in. I am such a mess, and I’m going to be ill for Christmas. Great. And I kind of mean that—at least, I won’t have to fake cheer at Mo’s tomorrow. I lift my toothbrush from the cup, plastering it with toothpaste.
I wonder if it’s the onset of flu or a virus?I can’t remember anyone in the office being unwell this week, beyond the perpetual winter cold some people seem to experience.What are my symptoms?My nose isn’t running, though my head hurts a little still. And my body aches. Actually, not my whole body. Just my boobs. I bring my right hand to my left breast, swapping hands and repeating the examination.My period, I decide. It has to be due.I do the maths in my head.Or overdue.
But that doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. I haven’t had a boyfriend in months and Greg...Greg.I drop the brush into the cup without bothering to rinse—hell—without bothering to wash the remains of the Camembert from my hair as I frantically searching for my phone.
‘What is it, sweetie?’ Mo groans in answer. ‘There had better be an apocalypse or something equally as drastic going on to warrant this early a call.’
‘Mo, it’s gone eight. Stop being a baby.’
