Jane Green - Bookends

We took one look and decided to leave the clearing up until tomorrow, thanking God that we had had the foresight to leave the actual opening of the shop until Monday.

I was ready to drop, but Si and Lucy were so high on the success of the party, turning the volume of the CD up loud, dancing on top of the bar, that it was impossible not to join in. And Lucy, wisely (or perhaps unwisely, depending on how you look at things), had stashed a few bottles of champagne in the office for exactly this reason.

So we cracked it open, we danced, and we started drinking again. Properly. Before the champagne appeared, I was desperate to do the Portia post-mortem with Si, but I could see that it would have to wait until the next day, so I pushed all my questions aside, and Lucy and I toasted one another. Over and over and over again.

My memories of Si trying to teach us to salsa are reasonably clear. Si and I got the giggles at Lucy’s complete lack of coordination, and when she stepped on his feet for the fourth time we lost it completely in the way that you only lose it completely when you are well and truly pissed, or well and truly stoned, and we hung over the back of the sofa, crying with laughter.

Si then decided it was time for a change of pace, and Abba went on the stereo, and Si and I did very poor impersonations of the two girls from Muriel’s Wedding impersonating Frida and Agnetha. And, just in case you’re wondering, Si was the blonde. Like you had to ask.

Josh walked in at some point. I think he was fairly shocked to find Lucy and I lying head to head on the bar, while Si attempted to pour hazelnut syrup into our mouths. Si said it was supposed to be done with tequila, but, since we didn’t have any, the syrups used to flavour the coffees would have to be the next best thing.

He didn’t seem to be very happy to find Lucy with sugar syrup smeared all over her face and hair.

‘Now that,’ he said disapprovingly, ‘is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Look at the pair of you. You’re covered in a sticky mess.’

Lucy hoisted herself up, climbed down from the bar and staggered into the loo to clean up, while I joined Si on the sofa and shouted at Josh.

‘You’re an old killjoy,’ I shouted.

‘Yeah. An old fart,’ Lucy shouted disloyally from the depths of the loo.

‘Why don’t you just let your hair down and have some fun?’ Si said, swigging from the last bottle of champagne and handing it to Josh to finish. Josh took it and tipped the rest of the champagne down the sink.

‘Not that I like being called a killjoy,’ he said, ‘but one of us has to act their age, and you’re going to have a hell of a job clearing this up tomorrow. I would suggest that unless you plan to spend the whole day in bed with the largest hangovers you’ve ever had, it’s time to go home.’

‘I think, troops,’ said Lucy, as we all struggled up to say goodbye, ‘that much as I hate to admit my boring old husband is right, we should all call it a night.’ And although we all moaned and groaned, today I could kiss Josh for being so stern. I feel bad enough as it is, particularly getting up at the crack of dawn to be in the shop by seven, but if Josh had let us carry on drinking all night, I think my liver might well have collapsed this morning.

As it was, Si chaperoned me home, which was slightly ridiculous, really, given that he could barely stand. He then came in so we could both drink three bottles of water each, as he had read that if you consume the same amount of water as alcohol drunk that evening, you will wake up hangover-free.

Unfortunately we could only manage a glass and a half each, and, after his minicab arrived, I stumbled out of my clothes, leaving them lying in heaps on the bedroom floor, and climbed into bed.

I wake up the next morning to the doorbell ringing, except initially I think it must be the doorbell in my dreams, then it becomes the phone, and finally I realize it’s the door. What the hell do they want at this godforsaken hour on a Sunday, and why the hell don’t they shut up?

I stumble out of bed, groan as my head pounds like a drum, and walk as quickly as I can to the hallway.

‘Hang on,’ I shriek, cringing at the loudness of my own voice. ‘I’m coming.’ And mercifully, the doorbell stops.

I make my way gingerly back to the bedroom and grab the towelling robe from behind the door, making a mental note to wash it because in the absence of a clean towel I’ve been using it daily for God knows how long, and what was once white is now an interesting spectrum of greys.

‘Who is it?’ My voice is back to normal now, I just wish that I were back to normal. My eyes feel like pinheads, my throat is dry and scratchy, and, as if the headache weren’t bad enough, waves of nausea are threatening every few seconds, and I’m not sure whether to answer the front door or head for the bathroom just in case.

‘Flower delivery,’ a voice says, and through the frosted glass I can just make out a huge bouquet of flowers. Strange. Who the hell’s sending me flowers? It doesn’t occur to me that no one sends flowers on a Sunday . Ever.

I open the door quickly, hoping that no one’s around to see me because I don’t even have to look in the mirror to know I look like shit, although frankly with the way that I’m feeling I don’t very much care.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, reaching out to take the flowers, and as I take them they reveal the face of the delivery man. I stand on the spot, paralysed with horror.

‘Hi!’ James’s smile fades as he gets his first good look at me. ‘Umm, I didn’t wake you, did I?’

‘What? What do you want?’ I don’t mean to be rude, but what the hell is his game? He left last night with Ingrid, doubtless took her back to his amazing studio, probably shagged her senseless, leaving me to spend the evening doing Abba impersonations. And I’m supposed to be pleased to see him?

‘Just leave me alone.’ I ignore the bewildered expression on his face, shove the flowers back into his hand and slam the door, groaning as the bang reverberates through my poor thumping head.

Oh shit. I make my way slowly to the bathroom, sink to my knees on the floor and – to hell with it – stick my fingers down my throat. As soon as I’ve thrown up I start to feel better, if only because the nausea’s subsided, so I go to the medicine cabinet. To Nurofen Plus. To redemption. I take three pills just to be on the safe side, consider drinking a lot more water but can’t quite manage it, drop the towelling robe on the floor and stumble back into the bedroom, turning down the volume on the phone on the way. I draw the duvet over my head.

What is going on? And more to the point, why is it bothering me so much? Why should I care if James and Ingrid got it together? Why do I actually feel upset about this? Enough. I’m not going to do this any more.

This time I refuse to wake up until my head, my heart and my life have all returned to normal.

‘I can’t move,’ I groan, eyes still closed, phone lying on the pillow beside my head. ‘Leave me alone. I’ve already been disturbed by that bloody James coming over this morning, and now you. Can’t you just go away?’

‘Nope.’ Si’s voice is as dodgy as mine. ‘I feel like hell too, but we’ve got to do the post-mortem, and we’ve got to do it before we clean the shop. I mean, what the hell’s the point in bothering to even talk to someone like Portia after ten years if we can’t then get together and talk about her once she’s disappeared again?

‘Plus,’ he continues with relish, his voice becoming stronger by the second, ‘I need to know what’s going on with Farmer James the Estate Agent Artist. And, the best way of curing a hangover is a fry-up. We need fried eggs, chips, sausages swimming in grease and baked bea…’ Before he finishes his sentence I’ve jumped out of bed, run to the bathroom and shoved my head back down the bowl of the loo.