Page 39 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Beep-beep-beep . . . beep-beep-beep . . .’

The next morning I sleep through my alarm and wake up with only ten minutes left to make it in time for breakfast. Not that I feel like breakfast. I have the worst hangover. My tongue feels like a small furry animal, my mouth tastes like a sewer, and that alarm is like a pneumatic drill boring through my skull.

‘Shuddup.’

I hit the ‘snooze’ button for the umpteenth time and let my arm flop down on to the bedspread like a leaden lump. It still feels like the middle of the night. Probably because back in New York it still is the middle of the night . . . For a joyous, fleeting moment I imagine I’m back home in my apartment and I can sleep for hours, and hours, and hours . . .

But I’m not. And I can’t.

I have to get up.

The alarm starts beeping again.

Like now.

Dragging myself out of bed, I stagger zombie-like – eyes closed, arms outstretched, groaning loudly – into the bathroom. Once I’ve taken a really hot shower I’ll feel a lot better. There’s no better hangover cure than being blasted by strong jets of water for five minutes to wake you up, I tell myself, thinking back to my power shower in my apartment and the countless times it’s brought me back to life. God, it’s just what I need. Tugging off my pyjamas, I blearily open my eyes. It takes a moment to focus, and then—

No. Surely not. It can’t be.

This is the shower?

A few minutes later and I’m standing shivering in the small, pink, plastic bathtub, sprinkling myself with a sort of brass hose-type attachment. Having shampooed my hair, I’m now trying to rinse it with the feeble trickle of lukewarm water, but it’s not easy. I seem to be doing a better job of rinsing the flowery wallpaper than my scalp. Plus, it’s really difficult to get the temperature right. I fiddle with the taps. It’s either freezing cold or—

‘Argghhhh.’

Hot enough to cause third-degree burns.

I drop the attachment. It falls clattering into the bathtub, affecting the water pressure, which suddenly changes from feeble-cum-nothing to Niagara Falls-type gushing and takes on a life of its own, spinning round like a whirling dervish and spraying scalding water everywhere.

‘Jesus!’

Trying to get out of the way, I now lose my balance and bash my shin against the tub.

‘Frigging hell,’ I yell, hopping around before promptly slipping on the pink plastic and sort of bellyflopping out of the bathtub and on to the pink shagpile bathmat.

For a moment I lie prostrate, cheek wedged up against the bathmat, limbs outstretched, feeling like one of those scene-of-the-crime chalk figures. I close my eyes. I’m tempted to lie here and go back to sleep, but I can’t. I’m supposed to be on vacation. A soapsud drips down the side of my nose and I shiver. And I’m not going to let a little thing like a hangover spoil that, now, am I?

A few minutes later I’m finally ready. I’ve managed to rinse my hair in the sink with a cup, but decided to pass on my fuzzy legs. After all, it’s the dead of winter – who’s going to see them? And anyway, I need the extra layer to keep me warm. I shiver, walking into the dining room, which is distinctly chilly.

That’s another thing I’m learning about English people. They’re so hardy! In New York when the temperature dips below zero we’re slaves to our central heating, but here they just put on another sweater.

I’m wearing three already.

‘Well, good morning,’ roars Rose through a mouthful of toast.

I’ve noticed that Rose doesn’t really mix with the other ladies on the tour and this morning is no exception. She’s sitting alone at an empty table wearing a sparkly black turtle neck and more diamonds than Elizabeth Taylor. By the looks of the screwed-up napkins, toast crumbs and empty teacups, most people have already eaten breakfast.

Yet it’s not even nine thirty, I realise, glancing at my watch. Will someone tell me why that is? Why do old people love getting up early? They’re retired. They can sleep till noon. Why, when the rest of us would do anything for that extra five minutes in bed, are they getting up at the crack of dawn when they don’t have to?

Baffled by one of life’s great mysteries, I pull out a chair.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I reply. ‘Apart from a bit of a hangover—’

‘Well, lucky you. I didn’t,’ she interrupts, pouring another cup of tea and adding three heaped teaspoons of sugar. ‘My room was far too hot, and the mattress was horribly lumpy. I didn’t sleep a wink all night.’

‘Oh, dear,’ I sympathise, deciding against mentioning that I woke up at 4 a.m. with jet lag and could hear her snoring through the wall. ‘Poor you.’