“Yo, Migraine Man,” she said as she pushed into the living room armed with two brown bags and a large clear cup of what looked like green slime. “I prescribe eggy-bacon bap and a Coke. Cure-all extraordinaire. The wheatgrass smoothie is for the health bit.” She shoved one of the bags at me and I caught it before it dropped to the ground.
*****
Kira
I watched as Barclay opened the bag and eyed fhe Food of the Gods with deep suspicion. After I gestured for him to move to the beanbags, he shuffled over there with yet another frown creasing the skin between his eyebrows. No wonder he had migraines. A permanent scowl would do that to anyone. Once in the living area, he sank down onto a beanbag. It was the first time I’d ever seen him slouch. There’s not much else you can do on a beanbag, so it was more of an enforced slouch, but, enforced or not, I thought he could do with a bit more slouching in his life. I walked over to him and shoved a Coke into his free hand.
“I don’t really–” he started, but I cut him off.
“No grumble-weeding. I expect that body of yours is a temple most of the time – I’ve spied that gym you have next to your office – but this morning you’re going to experience the magic of greasy carbohydrates and caffeine. I promise you’ll feel better. Coke has the same amount of sugar in it as rehydration fluid. That and the caffeine, plus Mr Eggy Bacon Bap, will pull you out of your fug. And the wheatgrass . . .” I shook the smoothie and put it at my feet “. . . that’ll health yourightup.”
“I usually drink a protein shake for breakfast,” he told me, but still took a long slug of the Coke.
“And I’m usually a vegan,” I shrugged. “Flexibility is the key to a happy life.”
“Vegan?” Barclay asked, his eyebrows going up into his hairline. “Kira, you’re the least vegan person I’ve ever met. Kebabs and eggy bacon baps are not vegan.”
I grinned at him and took a bite out of my bap. “Look, protein shakes are great and I wouldn’t expect anything less with an arse like yours,” said around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “Butthisis the stuff your body needs to feel better now.” I usually only reserved this for hung-over days but thought I’d make an exception to keep Migraine Man happy.
“Listen, I am sorry,” he told me, unwrapping his own breakfast. “I was totally out of line the other day. The press attention winds me up and I . . . I hope you still feel you can come to the house. For Henry, I mean.” It was all very stiff and formal, but at least it sounded somewhat sincere this time. I decided to let it go and gave a small shrug. The man was obviously under a mountain of stress, he didn’t need any extra.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, lying back on my beanbag and struggling out of my coat. The bloody thing was like a straight-jacket to get off. I arched my back and grunted as I dragged my arms out of the sleeves. When I looked up, Barclay was no longer frowning. His face was blank and his mouth had fallen slightly open. Maybe he was still a bit out of it?
“You okay there?”
He shook his head as if to clear it, turning away from me to look down at his food, his throat convulsing in a swallow.
“Yes, of course.” His voice just a bit rougher than normal. “Thanks for last night as well. These migraines, they annihilate me and I . . .”
“How often do you get them?”
He blinked before frowning again.
“About twice a month until . . . well, I guess once a week at the moment.”
“What are your triggers?”
“We’re getting off topic here. I came to apologise, but also I need–”
He stopped speaking as I pushed up off the beanbag to kneel in front of him in one swift move. Then, he flinched as my hand came up to smooth the deep worry line between his brows.
“This perma-frown won’t be helping,” I said, before flopping back onto my own beanbag again and feeling heat flood my face. What was wrong with me? Why had I touched his face? I’d felt an overwhelming desire to smooth that frown away. The weight of the world seemed to be on this man’s shoulders and, for some reason, it made my chest ache. “I reckon it’s stress.”
“What?” he asked, staring at me with a dazed expression. I seemed to have shocked all the uptight arsehole out of him for the moment with my inappropriate touching.
“Your trigger, it’s stress. Right? All this negotiating, press attention, big shit going down: you’re under too much pressure.”
He snapped out of his trance long enough for his eyes to flash with irritation. “I handle stress just fine, thanks, and even if I didn’t, there’s not much I can do about that at the moment,” he told me. “I have responsibilities and I–”
“I know you do,” I said, softening my tone and leaning forward towards him. That blank look came over his features again. “But you’ve got to look after yourself too. You need sleep. You need to be able to relax. Your body is telling you it can’t keep going like this. I know you’ve got to save the country, but you can’t very well do that when you’re crippled with pain and unable to look at any bright lights without vomiting.”
“My GP’s given me some prop–”
“Propranalol’s great for prophylaxis, but you can’t just swallow the pills and forget about the other stuff. I’ve got this great meditation pr–”
“No!” he barked out the word and was looking at me in an appalled way, like I had just offered to inject Ebola into his bloodstream. “I am not the sort of person who . . .meditates.” The way he emphasised the word made it clear that it was not something he’d consider doing, even under torture. I rolled my eyes. There was no helping some people. Let him pop pills and drive himself into the ground. What was it to me? So I sat back in my beanbag, polished off my bap and watched him take a few cautious bites of his as if it were somehow contaminated.
“Get it down you, Fussy McFusserson,” I told him. “I swear you’ll feel the benefit.”
