‘Yes, fine. Whatever.’
‘Undo her bra and let them drop gently into my hands like two soft little bundles?’
‘It’s hopeless,’ I sighed.
‘No, no. Seems to be working.’
And not only was it hopeless on the home front, there was Rupert too, on the work front. I heard his voice in my ear. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll call later.’ Those lovely deep, modulated tones …
‘Oh God, it’s a mistake!’ I sat bolt upright in horror.
‘Fine – I won’t!’ Marcus yelped in terror, sitting up beside me.
‘I’ll hand in my notice tomorrow.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly.’ Marcus flopped back on his pillows again. ‘This is what you wanted! Don’t give up just because Linda didn’t come, she’ll be back tomorrow and the children will be at school the next day. For God’s sake, get a grip. You said you loved your day.’
‘I did,’ I admitted guiltily, lying down again. ‘Most of it.’
‘And your boss is all right?’
‘Yes, he’s …fine. He’s taking me to lunch tomorrow. To – you know. Chat things over.’
There was a pause. ‘Well, there you are then,’ he said gruffly.
We were silent for a moment, in the dark.
‘Lunch,’ he grunted, at length. He turned over onto his side, facing the wall. ‘Never have time, myself.’
‘Of course not, you’re far too busy,’ I cajoled quickly. ‘And that bloody awful journey …’ I said, changing the subject but glad I’d cleared lunch with him. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how you do it every day, and you never complain.’ There. Toss him a brownie point. He grunted again.
‘Don’t know why you don’t use the flat more,’ I went on. ‘It occurred to me, Marcus, you never use it, and it’s just sitting there. If it was me and I had a late meeting like you sometimes do, I’m sure I would.’
It was true: our lovely pied-à-terre just off Kensington Church Street mouldered elegantly, unoccupied. We’d bought it when we sold the London house, faintly scared about leaving Town completely and thinking we’d always be up, popping to the theatre or to restaurants, but of course, we never were.
Marcus grunted again, but Karen’s hypnotic charms, fleshly or otherwise, were clearly doing the trick, and rhythmic breathing began to emanate beside me. I knew better than to disrupt it.
I, however, had a ghastly night, tossing and turning and having extraordinary dreams, which culminated in a nightmare vision of being chased down the street, naked but for a dirty bra, by Rupert, Laurie and Marcus, who were galloping after me on horseback in Life Guard uniforms waving sabres, followed by Lily and Angus, wearing rags and clutching a begging bowl, crying, ‘Where’s our food? Our clothes? Oh, you naughty mummy!’
Christopher crowed at what felt like dawn, and I vaguely remember Marcus mumbling something about going in early and why didn’t I take his MG, and then I turned over and went back to sleep. I drifted into a much nicer dream about rescuing Prince Harry from a gang of terrorists and Prince Charles becoming my best friend, and when I awoke, it was eight-fifteen.
I stared at the clock in disbelief. Eight-fifteen. Eight-fifteen? Oh God, I was going to be so late! Shit!
I flew out of bed and dashed to the shower, tripping over the step into the cubicle in my haste, and bashing my head on the tiled wall opposite. The pain was excruciating and I saw stars. Real stars. Gripping my head as it began to throb madly, I groped my way, moaning, to the bathroom cabinet. With eyes half-shut, I rummaged around and found some paracetamol. I threw two down, gulping water straight from the tap – oh, and one more for luck. Never did any harm. Ooh, my head! But as I swallowed the third pill, I looked at the bottle. It was small, and made of brown glass, just like the extra-strong paracetamols I got on prescription, except that this bottle was not mine. It was Marcus’s. And it was full of Temazepam.
I sat down heavily on the side of the bath and clutched my mouth in horror. Oh …my …God. I’d just taken not two, but three of Marcus’s sleeping pills! Jumping up again, I gazed at my reflection over the basin in dismay, almost expecting fangs. I’d never even taken one, not ever, and these were …oh dear Lord …I trembled as I read the bottle. These were 20 mg jobbies, which I knew were strong. What would happen to me? Had I overdosed? Would I fall into a coma? Should I make myself sick?
Feverishly, I stuffed my fingers down my throat and leaned over the loo. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t reach the nodules. Toothbrush perhaps, much longer reach …I tried but – oh God no, disgusting! I removed it and spat saliva in the basin. How did bulimics do it, I wondered? I stared at my reflection again, eyes wide. Right then. I squared my shoulders. Only one thing for it. I’d have to soldier on as if nothing had happened. Golly, they were only little pills, and some nights they didn’t even knock Marcus out, although three, I thought nervously, three might do something.
But if I was quick, I reasoned, throwing my clothes on, they wouldn’t kick in for a bit. And heavens, when they did, I could fight it. Hadn’t the Nazis used sleep deprivation as a form of torture, and who was that frightfully brave Resistance girl who fought sleep for days in that film – wassisname – Carve Her Name with Pride? Well, I’d fight it too. Easy. Just hope I won, I thought nervously, and it wasn’t a case of Carve Her Name with Shame as I was found snoring on the tarmac at Flaxton station.
I tore downstairs in my race against time, to find Linda already filling up the kitchen sink. She turned as she heard me, Marigolds raised as if about to perform an operation.
‘Oh Henny, I’m awfully sorry about yesterday, love, only me mum’s been having ever such funny turns recently and I really didn’t think I could –’
‘Fine. Fine,’ I gasped. ‘Not to worry. Here all day, Linda?’
‘Yes, all day. Except I might nip to McKay’s later. Only they’ve got a sale on and I could do with some new duvet covers. I’ve got my eye on some fitted sheets and –’
‘Splendid, marvellous. Children still asleep?’
‘Er, yes, I think –’
‘Super. Must fly,’ and I did, out of the back door, failing to shut it and leaving her still talking. But then, that wasn’t unusual.
I ran to the little black MG parked around the side of the house and unlocked it with trembling hands. What if the police stopped me? Was it worse than driving with alcohol in my blood? And if I had an accident, would I go to prison? No, I’d be fine, I reasoned. I was only going down the road, and the pills weren’t even kicking in yet. Or were they? I sat down, with a jolt remembering – too late – that I needed a plastic bag to sit on. The canvas roof leaked and, as usual, rain had soaked the driver’s seat. Cursing my luck, I drove furiously to the station and parked eccentrically in the car park. There. That was the worst bit. Now if I collapsed, at least I wouldn’t kill anyone.
I tottered from the car, eyelids feeling decidedly heavy now, legs a bit wobbly. The back of my skirt was sopping wet and stuck to my legs as I staggered on. I felt like an exhausted Saga holidaymaker whose colostomy bag had burst. Never mind. It would be dry by the time I got to work. I made my way gingerly down the flight of steps to the platform where, as luck would have it, the train was in.
I got a seat next to a rather cosy-looking fat man and looked longingly at his lap. If I could just rest my head for a second …He crossed his legs, terrified as I eyed his groin. Thirty minutes later I awoke at Charing Cross, to find, happily, I’d only made use of his shoulder. Looking askance, he shook me off – something he’d presumably been trying to do for a while as I’d lolled all over him, watched, no doubt, by an amused carriage of commuters, many of whom I was sure I’d meet again. No matter. I’d had my kip, and I was certain that would revive me. I stepped off the train and yawned widely. Oh yes, that would do the trick. All I’d needed was forty winks and – oh God. I staggered. Felt my head. Was I going to collapse? Somehow I made it outside and emerged on the Strand.
‘Taxi!’ I tapped on the window of one parked in the st
ation forecourt.
‘That’s just down the road, luv,’ the driver said when I gave him the address. ‘Be quicker to walk.’
‘Humour me,’ I muttered, clambering aboard.
‘Ah, right.’ He grinned. ‘Morning after the night before, eh?’
‘Well quite,’ I agreed politely, hoping I could keep my eyes open until I got there.
Luckily the door was ajar when I got to number 42, and even more fortuitously, when I’d crawled up the mountain of stairs and arrived at my desk, I found a note on my computer from Laurie.
Had to dash to a meeting at the BBC, damn it, but should be away by 12.00. Meet you at 12.30 in Kensington Place. Many many thanks for the transcripts – marvellous! Still wet from the bath!
Laurie
I gave a shaky smile and thanked my lucky stars. By some small miracle he a) wasn’t here to know I’d arrived at ten o’clock, and b) wasn’t to know I was going to put the answer machine on and have a kip on that yummy-looking sofa for a couple of hours before lunch. What luck. I tottered towards its creamy depths, my eyes closing now like a baby’s, and was on the point of prostrating myself, shoes kicked off – when a head popped around the door.
‘Laurie not in today?’ A middle-aged woman with corrugated grey curls and a hooked nose regarded me beadily.
‘Um, no. He’s got a meeting at the BBC.’
‘Ooh, lovely. Just my luck.’ She sidled in dragging a mop and a bucket. ‘I’ll do this room now, then, before I start downstairs. You don’t mind, do you, duck? Only he much prefers me to do it when he’s out, and I don’t like to disturb him.’
‘Oh. No, fine.’ I found my shoes and clutching the furniture, felt my way back to my desk.
‘Only I thought I’d get all them books out today and dust ’em.’ She gazed greedily up at the shelves. ‘Filthy, they are. Ruby, by the way.’
‘Henny,’ I croaked.
‘You carry on, luv, don’t mind me.’
Well, I could hardly do that, could I? I eyed the sofa longingly and lowered myself into my chair.
When it became clear that Ruby was going to keep up a running commentary about the state of the place, and how Laurie never bothered to take his dirty mugs and plates out, bless him – ooh, and you wouldn’t believe what she sometimes found down the back of the sofa, I gave a shaky smile, clamped on the headphones, and tapped away. At approximately two words a minute.
At twelve o’clock, Ruby lit a post-cleaning cigarette and slumped back on that covetable sofa to admire her gleaming spines. I, meanwhile, picked up my jacket, bade her farewell, tottered downstairs, and poured myself into the first passing taxi. If anything, I decided as I gripped the seat hard, I was feeling worse. My legs felt completely boneless, and something had happened to the muscles in my eyelids. They didn’t seem to be working. The effects should wear off soon though, surely, I thought in panic?
Thanking the driver profusely for waking me up, I weaved inside the restaurant. I’d beaten Laurie to it, and as I took my seat – just managing not to hang on to the wait-er’s arm as he showed me to it – I fumbled in my pocket for my mobile. I’d ring Marcus. He’d know. He’d know how long it took for the bloody things to wear off. His answer machine was on, and his PA’s too. Damn. Penny then. She’d know, of course she would. She was eminently sensible. She answered immediately, in cool, efficient tones.
‘Penny Trevelyon.’
‘Penny!’ I gasped, my voice sounding unnaturally loud suddenly. I couldn’t seem to gauge its volume. It rang around the restaurant. ‘What d’you know about drugs?’
A couple at the next table glanced at me quickly, then back at one another, eyebrows raised.
‘Drugs? Not a thing. You know I’ve never indulged. Why?’
‘No, no, not the psychedelic kind,’ I muttered, blushing and turning my back on the couple. ‘Proper ones. Medicinal ones. Sleeping pills, for example.’
She paused. ‘Why?’
‘Because I took three of Marcus’s by mistake this morning. I thought they were paracetamol. And Penny,’ I yelped, ‘they were double strength!’
There was a silence on the other end. Then, quietly: ‘Where are you now, Henny?’
‘I’m in Kensington Place waiting for Laurie, but I think I’m going to pass out.’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake get up right now and go straight home to bed,’ she said forcibly. ‘If you’ve taken three double-strength sleeping tablets, you’re in no fit state to be anywhere other than flat on your back! Either that or in hospital.’
‘I can’t, Penny,’ I wailed. ‘What’ll he think?’
‘Just tell him what’s happened,’ she hissed. ‘He’ll understand, he’s human, but you can’t sit there nodding off over lunch! Go to the flat, for God’s sake. If you’re in Kensington Place, it’s only round the corner.’
‘Yes, but Penny, it’s only my second day. I can’t just – Oh hi, Laurie.’ I cut her off brutally, switching the phone off too. I threw it in my bag.
‘Hi there.’ He swooped low to kiss my cheek, fringe flopping fetchingly. Golly. That woke me up a bit. Quite close to the mouth, too.
‘Sorry I’m late, but the wretched wardrobe woman wanted to go through a tatty old collection of corduroy suits at the last minute. Droned on about how they’d give me gravitas, an academic air. You all right?’ His dark eyes scanned my face as he sat down. ‘Look a bit peaky.’
‘Fine! Fine,’ I rallied, taking my chin out of my hands. ‘Just a bit – you know – tired.’
‘God, me too, I’m knackered. Let’s get a drink, shall we? That’ll perk us up. Waiter!’
Would it? A drink? A lightbulb went on in my head. Yes, of course, I thought feverishly. A stiff drink would wake me up.
‘A gin and tonic for me,’ he was saying to the waiter, ‘and Henny?’
‘Same.’ I grinned. I never drank spirits. ‘And make it a double.’
Laurie looked surprised. Surprised, but encouraged, too. He smiled. ‘Yes, OK. I’ll have a double too. And we may as well order some food, while we’re at it. The mushroom risotto’s frightfully good in here but –’
‘Fine, I’ll have that.’
‘D’you want a starter?’
‘No, and no pudding either.’
Let’s get this show on the road, I thought grimly. Let’s get it over and done with. In fact, why bother with food? Surely the gin would do nicely. And make it snappy, I willed to the waiter’s departing back.
Moments later, our drinks appeared. As Laurie leaned back in his chair and launched into a monologue about his volatile relationship with his producer, I gulped mine down quickly. It was extremely strong and I practically had to hold my nose. I was also aware that, although Laurie was chatting, he was watching me with interest. Was he wondering if he’d employed an alcoholic, perhaps? No, just a narcotic, I thought, sniggering foolishly to myself.
Laurie talked on. His producer, it transpired, was of the opinion that all history could be traced back to sex, and his sole aim in this series was to get as many shots as possible of Mary Tudor in bed with William of Orange. Laurie was just explaining to me the pitfalls of such a strategy, given Mary’s well-documented frigidity and William’s predilection for small boys, when inexplicably, he ground to a halt.
‘Henny, am I boring you?’
‘No, why?’ I murmured.
‘Well it’s just you’ve got your head on the tablecloth and your eyes are shut.’
I jerked upright. ‘Sorry. No, not boring at all. Jolly interesting actually. Especially the bit about the iron chastity belt. But – oh God, I’m sorry. I think the drink’s gone to my head.’
It was a mistake, I realized that now. Especially a double. I was beginning to feel not just tired, but very peculiar. And pissed. Very, very pissed. I had a feeling I might pass out.
‘Now that’s encouraging,’ Laurie murmured, fixing me with dark, smouldering eyes. ‘I like a girl who lets a bit of liquor go to her head.’
I leaned ac
ross the table and seized his hand. ‘Laurie, it’s no good. I have to go to bed.’
He looked around, startled. The couple on the next table were agog, albeit behind their menus. Laurie coughed. Straightened his tie.
‘Henny, I’m thrilled, naturally,’ he murmured nervously. ‘And frankly I’m with you all the way. I thought to myself the moment I saw you, Now there’s a very attractive woman. If I’m not careful I can see myself getting entangled with her …but don’t you think we should at least sample the risotto?’
‘No, no.’ I shook my head vigorously. Another mistake. I held it, lest it topple from my neck on to Kensington Place’s tasteful wooden flooring. ‘Not that sort of bed.
I mean to sleep. You see, Laurie,’ I lowered my voice, ‘I’ve taken an overdose.’
Within minutes Laurie had paid the bill, unordered the risottos and was ushering me out of the front door.
‘You’re an addict?’ he squeaked, looking white and appalled as he flagged down a passing taxi. ‘Jesus, Henny, I had no idea! Penny didn’t say, and God, I didn’t think to check your arms. You certainly don’t look like a –’
‘No, sleeping pills,’ I insisted, the cool air at least having some effect on my vocal cords. ‘I took Marcus’s sleeping pills thinking they were paracetamol. Took three. I’ve just got to lie down, Laurie.’
‘Oh!’ He stared at me as I stumbled into the back of the taxi. As he got in beside me and sat down, his mouth twitched. ‘Right. So, we’re not off to the nearest hospital to have your stomach pumped, then?’
‘God, I hope not. No, just to twenty-four Campden Hill Grove for a little lie-down.’
Luckily there was no traffic, our driver was swift, and we were there in moments. Laurie chuckled as he helped me out of the cab, and I have to say, by now, I was feeling a little less drugged-up and much more ginned-up. Beginning to see the funny side.
‘So,’ he reflected in amusement as he helped me up the path to the elegant cream Georgian house – if the neighbouring Nina Campbell curtains twitched, I didn’t notice. ‘Day two, and my new PA pops a handful of pills, sinks a double gin, and drags me back to her place.’
Not That Kind of Girl Page 11