I. Morning
In the room on the third floor, the pale, early-morning glow reaches across the walls, illuminating the interior, and warms the sock-clad feet of the figure lying spread-eagled on the bed against the one green-wallpapered wall.
She lies with her open mouth inches from a small pool of purple vomit, baring arse to the candelabra. Somewhere in the folds of the duvet a phone is ringing. Although muffled, its demands wake the figure. She stirs, her groans lost in the memory foam. She turns onto her side, cheek damp with dribble, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She smells the sick before she sees it and retreats across the bed. Pinching her nose, she searches with one hand through the duvet and finds her clutch bag by her knee. She fumbles with the lock and pulls out the phone from where it’s nestled between loose change, receipts from the bar downstairs. She answers the call on the final ring.
— Alright Angie, love? Ow’s the angover?
— Iya Jan. Am anging, fair play. You alright?
— Yes, yes, just downstairs with The Girls aving something to eat. Seen the time, love?
Angie squints through semi-closed eyelids, ignoring the dull ache in her left eye.
— Oh fuckin ell, it’s half ten! Right, am getting up now.
— Don’t worry, mun, we’ll be up with some brekkie for you inna bit. What d’you want?
— Paracetamol and a Berocca if you got any.
— Yes, yes, no problem. Anything to eat though?
Angie unsteadily makes her way over to the desk above which a large rectangular mirror hangs on the wall. She curses under her breath as she almost trips over her boots and jeans strewn across the floor.
— No thanks, onestly. Angie pauses. Maybe some toast might elp though.
— Alright love no problem. I’ve got the keycard so you go sort yourself out and we’ll be up inna bit.
She drops the phone onto the desk with a thud. Squints into the mirror, her nose almost touching that of her reflection’s; her contact lens is stuck to the left of her pupil. The eye is bloodshot and sore. As soon as she starts poking at it, tears flood her waterline, threatening to cascade down her cheek, still damp with forgotten saliva. She extracts it successfully, flicking the discarded contact lens into the bin below the desk. She blinks away the tears, rubs at her cheeks with the back of her hand. She checks the other eye in the mirror and realises she must have taken the lens out after stumbling into the room late last night. You fucking idiot, she sa
