Roberta unlocked the door and stumbled inside. Thumped it shut behind her. Leaned back against it and let out a shuddery foul-tasting breath.
The curtains were drawn, making the room a gloomy obstacle course, but there was no mistaking the massive bed with its flouncy canopy. She hauled off her soggy jacket and shirt, dumping them both on the floor, kicked off her wet shoes, and staggered over. Timbered facedown onto the bed with a mournful groan.
‘I’m dying...’
Susan sat up. Could feel her doing it.Andthe completely unsympathetic daggers she wasdefinitelyglaring into Roberta’s back. Heartless monster that she was.
And then, to prove it, she shoved Roberta off the bed, sending her crashing down on the horrible tartan carpet.
‘Nooo...’
‘Shhh!’
And when Roberta wobbled to her knees and peered over the edge, Susan was already lying flat and rigid, like a coffin lid, seething. A sadistictut, then she turned her back and hauled the duvet over her again.
It was enough to make you...
Oh no.
Roberta crawled away as fast as possible, through the door to the en suite and its big Victorian toilet, yanked the lid up and spattered every single internal organ she owned into it.
Rain rattled the bathroom window as Roberta surfaced from the toilet bowl. Coming up for air that stank of rancid bitter yuck. Flushing helped. But not much.
They’d abandoned the tartan theme in here, going instead for that palette of muted greys hotels like so much. Lots of really expensive tiles. A big enamel bath. And a mini wet-room-shower-thing in the corner. White fluffy bathrobeshanging on the back of the door, embroidered with the Laird’s coat of arms to make sure everyone knew how swanky Skirivour Castle Hotel was.
The robes swished from side to side as Susan barged the door open for a good glower. It put wrinkles on her slightly rounded face, stealing away some of the prettiness. Her blonde, middle-aged Doris-Day-in-Calamity-Jane kind of look was a bit undermined by the red babydoll nightie, but she still had cracking legs.
Susan folded her arms, making her bosom heave up.
And talking of heaving...
Roberta stuck her head back down the toilet and gave it another filling. Ended with a wee sob that echoed back from her porcelain prison. ‘Can you at least hold my hair back?’
‘Hold your own bloody hair.’
Nooo...
‘Howcouldyou embarrass me like that, Robbie? How? I have toworkwith these people!’
Every retch was like being kicked in the stomach by an angry horse.
‘You never think ofanyonebut yourself, do you? I just don’t count. If it’s not aboutyouit might as well never bloody happen. You behaved appallingly!’
Roberta surfaced from the toilet’s depths, resting her cheek against the wooden seat. Warm and comforting from all the bums that had sat on it. ‘I... I am always on my best... best behaviour...’
‘You don’t remember, do you? You’reimpossible!’
Remember? What was there to remember?
Lurching up to the bar and banging her empty glass down, setting little bowls of macadamia nuts dancing. Struggling to make the words sound right. ‘’Nother whisky!’
Flailing her limbs about as ‘Come on Eileen’ belts out of the DJ’s speakers; all the Tweedy Twats and Strapless Sharons in their wedding outfits staring at her like she’s some sort of leper, just cos she’s having a good time and singing along.
Hauling back a hand and slapping that smug git Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott right in his smug fat face, hard enough to make him land on his smug fat arse.
Stumbling out of the conservatory, stiff-legged like a drunken chicken, clutching a bottle of pilfered Lagavulin, swigging from it as she marches off into the darkness...
Oh.
