Just as Timmy hangs up, my doorbell goes.
I groan, pulling the duvet over my head. It will be the postman with some kind of delivery and, hopefully, he’ll leave it with another flat in the building for me to pick up later.Whydid I decide to drink so heavily on a Monday night? What was I thinking? Andtequila.I’m going to kill Cara. Does she think we’re still twenty? Were those shots really necessary? Why did we even…
Oh, yeah. Daniel’s wedding invitation. That’s why.
I think I’m going to throw up.
Seconds later the buzzer goes again, and when I still don’t respond, it goes off a few more times. Realizing now that it can only be a frantic bride in a state of panic, I slide my legs out of bed and sit up, pushing my tangled hair back from my forehead. I grab my dressing gown from the back of the door and throw it on, quickly forming in my head an I-look-like-this-because-I’m-super-sick line to give whichever bride I’m faced with, hoping they won’t think I’m horribly unprofessional.
“Hello?” I say into the intercom.
“Sophie? My God, is that you? You soundawful! What’s happened to your voice? Are you hungover? On a Tuesday? Is that why you were so slow in coming to the door? I thought you might be dead!”
I close my eyes, the pain in my head suddenly much sharper than it was before. “Mum. Hi.”
“Are you going to buzz me in?”
“Do I have a choice?” I mutter under my breath, pressing the button and leaving my front door off the latch in preparation.
I shuffle into the kitchen and start filling the kettle. I hear her talking as she comes up the stairs, before she’s even in the flat, her voice echoing around the walls of the building. I put the kettle aside, realizing that painkillers are a lot more necessary right now.
“Why are the walls so scruffy? And this carpet could do with a proper vacuum. Is a dog living in this building? Hairs everywhere! And what’s that smell? It’s like seaweed.”
She bustles into the flat, spying me in the kitchen holding the paracetamol. “What happened?” she asks, her eyes widening as she hangs her coat and handbag on a coat hook. “Did you get robbed?”
“What?” I take the paracetamol and a gulp of water. “Why would you think I’d been robbed? The flat isn’t messy.”
“No, but you look dreadful!”
“And you naturally jump to the conclusion that I’ve been robbed.”
“Well, something’s happened, Sophie. It’s a Tuesday and you’re popping pills like there’s no tomorrow! I hope you’re not doing this on a daily basis?”
I rub my temples. “I just have a headache, Mum. I’m not a drug addict.”
She makes her way into the kitchen and takes over kettle duty, switching it on, then reaching for two mugs from the cupboard. “You’re hungover, then?”
“I’m sick.”
She raises her eyebrows and gives me the look that only parents can, even when you’re in your thirties. “Are you really sick?”
“Technically, yes.”
“From alcohol?”
“Do the details matter? I’m sick, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Was it a date?” she asks, neatly placing two teabags in the mugs. My mum does everything very delicately, even when it comes to everyday things like making tea.
“In a manner of speaking. It was a date with Cara.”
“Why were you out with Cara on a Monday night?”
“Wait a second. Why are you here?”
“How nice of you!”
“You know what I mean,” I say, rolling my eyes—it hurts. “It’s lovely to see you, Mum, but what are you doing at my flat on a Tuesday morning?”
