‘You asked me to come and help you put up your bedroom furniture.’
Did I?
‘Right…’ I glance back at the crime scene behind me. The tinny speakers now playing ‘Angel’ by Madonna. ‘Actually, I’m not feeling great. Could we do it tomorrow?’
‘No shit. I can smell the cause of not feeling well from here.’
I run my hands through my hair, forgetting the knot of chewing gum.
‘Is that gum?’ he asks, leaning forwards and nudging the door further open.
‘Yep. Long story.’ I take a breath; too hungover to explain.
He steps in, his feet stopping mid-progress as he takes in the room. ‘Jesus.’
‘It’s… not what you think.’
‘I have no idea what I think.’ He moves towards the wall, hands already fingering the black and white print out of Pete’s chippy.
Liquid floods my mouth. ‘Sorry, I’m going to be?—’
I rush from the room, only just managing to open the downstairs loo before evacuating the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl. Once flushed, I sit there, head on the toilet seat as I try to piece together last night. There was dancing, I’m sure. And possibly a phone call? A fresh round of nausea occupies me for the next ten minutes.
When I return to the room, Spence has placed some of the insides of the boxes into neat piles and has cleared the debris from the floor.
He hands me a glass of water, which I take gratefully.
‘Who’s Michael?’ He nods to the wall where it seems I’ve stuck a mural of faces, a few lines of barely holding on to the wall, masking tape-connected photos that really don’t need connecting, one of which is Kit Harrington and, Jesus, is that Sean Bean?
‘It’s a long story…’ I panic, looking around for the letter, my head pounding. ‘There was a letter…’ Did I imagine it or dream it all? But then my eyes land on the yellow paper, folded beside a pile of tissues next to a photo of me and Ryan. Not all dancing and sleuthing then. My eyes are stinging, evidence that I hit the maudlin stage of being brandy drunk.
I shuffle onto the sofa and curl up. ‘Coffee?’ I ask hopefully. Spencer returns with a cup and two paracetamols in his palm.
‘Thanks.’ I knock back the pills as he sits down, eyeing the room then me.
‘I don’t suppose I rang you last night, did I?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nope. You sent me a text to ask if I could help you with the furniture. Why?’
I grimace. ‘I think I might have drunk-dialled Ryan.’
With shaking hands, I reach for my phone, swiping the screen but the battery is dead. Probably a good thing. I’m not sure I can take reading any messages I might have sent last night.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’
I lean back and close my eyes before giving him the highlights. Or lowlights, depending on your take, and then excuse myself for a shower.
I wash my hair, before remembering the gum stuck fast at the corner of my right temple, so when I return to the lounge, my hair – while clean – is in an even worse state than before.
Spence is standing before my wall of shame. He pushes his glasses up and leans closer. ‘So I’m guessing this is your… mood board?’ He nods to the picture of half the cast ofGame of Thrones, the front cover ofWuthering Heights, and a mug shot of Jacob Elordi. Jesus.
‘I… It’s just research.’
I try to drag a brush through my hair, but it halts at the ball of hair.
Spence steps forward. ‘Let me see if I can…’ His fingers reach for my hair as he tries to pull some strands away.
‘Ouch! Can you give Josie a call? My phone’s dead and I need her to cut this out.’ In another life, Josie was a hairdresser.
