Clara looks sympathetic. ‘I think maybe you should try to cure this hangover a bit first? Have you considered having a tactical chunder?’
‘Ifeelhorribly sick,’ I say feebly, ‘but I don’t think I can actually vomit.’
Clara moves closer, bouncing herself down on the end of the bed. My brain see-saws with the movement. ‘I’ll share my secret with you if you like,’ she says conspiratorially, and I narrow my eyes at her.
‘I’m not putting my fingers down my throat,’ I tell her with disgust and she looks offended.
‘I’m not saying do that!’ She leans in, bouncing the bed again and making me want to die. ‘When I feel rough, what I do is go put my face over the toilet – get as close as I can handle to the bowl – and the’ – she waves her hand evocatively – ‘odoursand weird stains you can suddenly see up close always push me over the edge. Instant puke, every time.’
‘Nice,’ I say. And suddenly the visual she described hits me and I’m running for the bathroom.
I emerge five minutes later, sweat and tears mingling with mascara on my face. I feel too rough to care what a mess I am, but at least being sick has taken the edge off it.
‘Oh, mate.’ Clara emerges from the kitchen, looking at me with sympathy. She’s holding a milky coffee and offers it up. ‘Mia coffee?’
‘I don’t think I can,’ I say weakly, and try for a smile. ‘But thank you, you’re very kind.’
She beams at me, delighted by the warmth, and I feel a pang. Am I usually so cold? I really have to get over it. Clara’s a sweet person, and I’ve been pretty horrible to her since she’s been back. I stagger through to the living room, collapsing on the sofa and feeling the momentary relief of cold cushions on my cheek.
‘I need to get to the library,’ I say again in a sad, low voice.
Clara sits down beside me and – very gingerly like she’s afraid I will snap – puts an arm around me. I let her pull me in, enjoying being cuddled. I honestly can’t remember useverhugging. Can that really be right? Surely we have? We must’ve at least done it occasionally when we were little.
‘I think the library might have to wait,’ Clara says into my hair. ‘I’ll hit up the Lidl down the road for some hardcore carbs – that’ll sort you out.’
I want to weep at this. It’s the most generous thing anyone has ever offered to do for me. Ever. Or it feels that way right now anyway.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, with determination. ‘Some fresh air will help, and I think I need toseethe food, to know what my hangover needs. I need to show the monster its prey.’
Clara releases me, then offers a hand to help me stand up. I make my way upstairs to pull a jumper on over my pyjamas, adding a coat to complement the lewk.
The cold air does its job and I feel slightly more like myself by the time we reach the supermarket. As we pass through the automatic doors, Clara is talking animatedly about her new ‘job’ as that actor’s publicist.
‘I thought it was only for one day?’ I squint, picking up a basket as she examines a courgette. ‘Like, literally just this single, solitary event today?’
‘Whatever,’ she says smoothly, moving down the aisle and calling back to me. ‘It’ll only take that long for him to fall madly in love with me anyway.’
I hide a smile, wincing a little at the sudden rush of head pain it causes.
‘Excuse me.’ A woman pushing a trolley taps me on the shoulder. ‘Can you tell me where the nappies are?’
I blink at her. ‘I don’t work here.’
She looks me up and down. ‘Oh. Never mind then.’
‘Jemma!’ Clara calls from the end of the aisle. ‘I found pizzas!’
I hurry over and the pair of us stare in at the array of beige foods. I want all of it: pizzas, garlic bread, onion rings, chips, breaded mushrooms, croquettes, potato wedges, chicken nuggets. ALL OF IT.
A man steps between me and the food. ‘Have you run out of baked beans?’ he asks impatiently and I glare at him.
‘I don’t work here!’ I tell him, matching his impatient tone. He tuts and strops off.
I turn to Clara. ‘What is it exactly about my pyjamas that says I work here?’
She looks me up and down. ‘To be fair, those are the shop colours, dude.’
‘And the mascara smears all over my face just scream professional?’ I comment dryly, piling items into the basket.
