‘Yippee, we’ve won, we’ve won!’
‘Put it there,’ I hear myself exclaiming, high-fiving Cat.
She laughs delightedly. ‘Oooh, I love how you Americans do that.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I laugh back, though to be honest I don’t really, as I never high-five anyone – in fact, I don’t know what just possessed me to high-five Cat.
‘I think that deserves a drink,’ laughs Cat. ‘Your round, boys.’
At that moment a bell sounds twice. How odd. I thought I heard a bell five minutes ago.
‘Sorry, that’s the end of last orders,’ grins Lee. ‘You weren’t quick enough.’ Then seeing my puzzled expression, explains, ‘That means closing time.’
‘Awww,’ groans Cat, her face falling. ‘Well, we’ll have to do this again sometime.’
‘Definitely.’ Honestly it’s amazing, I’ve only known Lee and Cat a few hours, but I’m feeling quite emotional. I’ve even got the hiccups.
I glance over to the bar, where Maeve and Ernie are engrossed in conversation, their heads bent low, their bodies turned towards one another. You’d have to be blind not to read the body language, and as I catch Maeve’s eye her face flushes like a teenager on a first date. Aww, would you look at that? They look so cute together.
Gesturing for her to wait for me, I turn back to Cat and Lee and launch into a round of hugs and goodbyes and the promise of keeping in touch, until we’re eventually broken up by the barman, who appears to collect our glasses.
‘There you go,’ I hiccup, passing him my empty one. Stumbling to my feet, I turn unsteadily to leave when I notice that Spike’s pint is still half-full.
‘Couldn’t finish that, huh?’ I hear myself slurring. God, I really am a lot more drunk than I thought. Still, I don’t think he noticed.
‘Nope,’ he replies, not looking at me as he hands his cider to the barman.
I feel a hot flush of satisfaction. This is so great. First I beat him at pool, then I drink more than him. That’ll show him!
‘’Fraid I’m a complete wuss when it comes to alcohol. Never could stand the hangovers.’ He grins smugly.
Huh? What? I hiccup loudly and put my hand up to my head, which is beginning to throb.
‘Make sure you drink lots of water,’ he chortles.
And with that he’s walking away across the pub and I’m left behind with a bad case of the hiccups and the woozy feeling that I’ve just been had.
Chapter Eleven
‘Beep-beep-beep . . . beep-beep-beep . . .’
The next morning I sleep through my alarm and wake up with only ten minutes left to make it in time for breakfast. Not that I feel like breakfast. I have the worst hangover. My tongue feels like a small furry animal, my mouth tastes like a sewer, and that alarm is like a pneumatic drill boring through my skull.
‘Shuddup.’
I hit the ‘snooze’ button for the umpteenth time and let my arm flop down on to the bedspread like a leaden lump. It still feels like the middle of the night. Probably because back in New York it still is the middle of the night . . . For a joyous, fleeting moment I imagine I’m back home in my apartment and I can sleep for hours, and hours, and hours . . .
But I’m not. And I can’t.
I have to get up.
The alarm starts beeping again.
Like now.
Dragging myself out of bed, I stagger zombie-like – eyes closed, arms outstretched, groaning loudly – into the bathroom. Once I’ve taken a really hot shower I’ll feel a lot better. There’s no better hangover cure than being blasted by strong jets of water for five minutes to wake you up, I tell myself, thinking back to my power shower in my apartment and the countless times it’s brought me back to life. God, it’s just what I need. Tugging off my pyjamas, I blearily open my eyes. It takes a moment to focus, and then—
No. Surely not. It can’t be.
This is the shower?
A few minutes later and I’m standing shivering in the small, pink, plastic bathtub, sprinkling myself with a sort of brass hose-type attachment. Having shampooed my hair, I’m now trying to rinse it with the feeble trickle of lukewarm water, but it’s not easy. I seem to be doing a better job of rinsing the flowery wallpaper than my scalp. Plus, it’s really difficult to get the temperature right. I fiddle with the taps. It’s either freezing cold or—
‘Argghhhh.’
Hot enough to cause third-degree burns.
I drop the attachment. It falls clattering into the bathtub, affecting the water pressure, which suddenly changes from feeble-cum-nothing to Niagara Falls-type gushing and takes on a life of its own, spinning round like a whirling dervish and spraying scalding water everywhere.
‘Jesus!’
Trying to get out of the way, I now lose my balance and bash my shin against the tub.
‘Frigging hell,’ I yell, hopping around before promptly slipping on the pink plastic and sort of bellyflopping out of the bathtub and on to the pink shagpile bathmat.
For a moment I lie prostrate, cheek wedged up against the bathmat, limbs outstretched, feeling like one of those scene-of-the-crime chalk figures. I close my eyes. I’m tempted to lie here and go back to sleep, but I can’t. I’m supposed to be on vacation. A soapsud drips down the side of my nose and I shiver. And I’m not going to let a little thing like a hangover spoil that, now, am I?
A few minutes later I’m finally ready. I’ve managed to rinse my hair in the sink with a cup, but decided to pass on my fuzzy legs. After all, it’s the dead of winter – who’s going to see them? And anyway, I need the extra layer to keep me warm. I shiver, walking into the dining room, which is distinctly chilly.
That’s another thing I’m learning about English people. They’re so hardy! In New York when the temperature dips below zero we’re slaves to our central heating, but here they just put on another sweater.
I’m wearing three already.
‘Well, good morning,’ roars Rose through a mouthful of toast.
I’ve noticed that Rose doesn’t really mix with the other ladies on the tour and this morning is no exception. She’s sitting alone at an empty table wearing a sparkly black turtle neck and more diamonds than Elizabeth Taylor. By the looks of the screwed-up napkins, toast crumbs and empty teacups, most people have already eaten breakfast.
Yet it’s not even nine thirty, I realise, glancing at my watch. Will someone tell me why that is? Why do old people love getting up early? They’re retired. They can sleep till noon. Why, when the rest of us would do anything for that extra five minutes in bed, are they getting up at the crack of dawn when they don’t have to?
Baffled by one of life’s great mysteries, I pull out a chair.
‘Sleep well?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I reply. ‘Apart from a bit of a hangover—’
‘Well, lucky you. I didn’t,’ she interrupts, pouring another cup of tea and adding three heaped teaspoons of sugar. ‘My room was far too hot, and the mattress was horribly lumpy. I didn’t sleep a wink all night.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I sympathise, deciding against mentioning that I woke up at 4 a.m. with jet lag and could hear her snoring through the wall. ‘Poor you.’
‘Poor me indeed,’ grumbles Rose, clanking the spoon against the sides of the cup as she stirs. ‘However, it seems others were enjoying themselves.’ Leaning closer, she suddenly fixes me with a heavily mascaraed eye. ‘A little birdie told me you and our journalist friend were embroiled in a little tête-à-tête last night at the local drinking establishment.’
My cheeks tinge with colour. ‘I wouldn’t call it that. We just bumped into each other in the local pub,’ I protest hurriedly, wondering why I feel the need to explain when nothing happened. ‘We played pool.’
Rose raises a painted eyebrow. ‘Quite,’ she says, clicking her tongue. Looping her finger through her teacup, she leans back against her chair and sips her tea. It’s more than obvious she doesn’t believe me, and I’m about to protest further when a teenaged wa
itress appears in full frilly-aproned garb.
‘Would madam care to order breakfast?’ she asks, hovering awkwardly at the head of the table, her eyes darting around like a frightened bird.
My stomach is still swilling round like a washing machine set to cycle ‘nauseous’ and I really don’t feel like eating anything. But I know I have to. Even if just because I can’t take two Nurofen on an empty stomach.
Quickly I scan the menu. Usually breakfast for me consists of snatching a low-bran muffin from the Italian bakery next to the bookstore, but this is all cooked. ‘Um, what would you recommend?’ I ask, feeling a bit fazed.
The waitress stares at me fearfully. ‘We do a full English breakfast,’ she suggests meekly.
I have no idea what this involves, but I’m keen to embrace local traditions. ‘Sounds great.’ I smile, closing my menu.
The waitress’s face flushes with relief and she makes a little scribble on her pad. ‘And how would you like your eggs, madam?’
‘Over easy,’ I reply automatically. That’s how I always have my eggs.
She looks at me with a baffled expression.
‘Sunny side up?’ I suggest instead, looking at her face for some kind of recognition and, seeing nothing, feeling like a bit of an idiot. God, I must look like a right tourist.
‘Um . . . scrambled?’ I ask uncertainly.
Suddenly she breaks into a smile and I feel a beat of relief.
‘And could I have—’ I’m about to say egg whites, but decide against it. I don’t want to look like one of those fussy Americans who ask for everything to be non-fat and on the side, I think, remembering Spike’s comment last night. ‘Just a non-fat latte,’ I say instead.
Oh, shit. I just did, didn’t I?
‘I mean . . . um . . . Tea is just fine,’ I say, gesturing to the teapot in the middle of the table. ‘When in Rome . . .’ I laugh breezily, but the waitress merely gives me a puzzled look and scuttles away.
‘Nothing better than a nice cup of tea,’ approves Rose, taking a rather loud slurp as if to prove it. ‘Although of course the tea they serve here is ghastly.’
‘Oh, really?’ I nod, ignoring my hangover, which is screaming out for a coffee. Like I said, I’m keen to try all these English traditions, and this is one of them.
Reaching for the teapot, I squeeze my fingers through the fine bone-china handle. I hold it gingerly, reminded of the time I held my cousin Lisa’s newborn baby: at arm’s length, away from my chest, terrified I was going to drop and break it. It’s surprisingly heavy – the teapot, not the baby – and my wrist wobbles. Saying that, I’ve also got the shakes from alcohol poisoning, which isn’t exactly helping matters.
‘So?’
‘Mmm, delicious.’ I smile, taking a sip of weak, milky tea. ‘Very refreshing.’
God, I’d kill for a Starbucks.
Rose purses her lips. ‘I’m not referring to the tea,’ she chastises. ‘I’m referring to your . . .’ she hesitates, choosing her words carefully ‘. . . encounter.’
Aww, bless, how chaste. Underneath the booming voice and guise of heavy eyeliner, Rose really is still just a sweet little old lady, I think affectionately. ‘Nothing happened. It was entirely innocent,’ I say reassuringly.
‘I’m sure it was, my dear.’ She nods. ‘But let me tell you, men are never innocent in their thoughts.’
I stifle a smile. No doubt she’s now going to warn me about the dangers of men and how I have to protect my honour. How cute.
‘I was young once, you know.’
I nod kindly and settle back in my chair. What joy. Rose is going to tell me tales of courtship and romance. Of being wooed by handwritten love letters and being recited poetry to under a spreading oak tree . . .
Scenes from novels flash through my mind and I feel a wistful pang. Oh, to be young and single in those days. Things were so very different.
‘Long before I became a famous actress in the theatre, I met Larry, my first husband . . .’
I feel a blip of surprise. Her first husband? How many husbands has Rose had? I wonder.
‘. . . He was a US serviceman based here during the war . . .’
Ah, you see. That explains it. He probably died in action and she was left heartbroken for years. No doubt she only married again later in life for companionship, but she never forgot her first love, their tender moments shared, their slow, sweet courtship.
‘. . . I was only nineteen years old . . .’
See. I knew it.
‘. . . and I’d never even seen a penis . . .’
My reverie screeches to an abrupt halt. Hang on a minute. Did she just say penis?
‘. . . I was somewhat of a late bloomer. Tilly, my best friend, had already done it with her young chap . . .’
No. Please. No. There must be some mistake. What happened to handwritten love letters?
‘. . . several times in fact. Both missionary and from behind . . .’
Arrrggh.
‘. . . It all came as quite a shock, I can tell you . . .’
For the love of Christ. Make this stop. I’ve got a hangover.
‘. . . In those days all I was interested in was getting my hands on a pair of nylons, but Larry was interested in getting those great big Ohio hands of his on my—’
‘Full English breakfast?’ Like a white frilly angel, the waitress suddenly reappears at the table.
I almost cry with relief. Thank God. Another second and I don’t think I would have made it.
‘Yes, please . . . Oh, thank you.’ I smile gratefully as the waitress puts a huge plate in front of me.
And I mean huge.
My stomach balks. Wow, that’s a lot of food for one person. I stare nervously at the glistening mound of eggs, sausages, bacon, beans and some kind of patty. Not to mention the slices of toast. And they say Americans eat huge portions.
‘Well, don’t just sit there looking at it. Tuck in,’ scolds Rose, who thankfully seems to have been steered off course from telling me all about her sex life. ‘You need to get some meat on those bones.’
Trust me, I have enough meat on these bones to last more than one series of Survivor, but I’m not going to argue with Rose. Picking up a fork, I cautiously survey my plate. Hmm, I wonder what this patty thing is?
Shaving off a slither, I tentatively taste it.
I get a very pleasant surprise. ‘Wow, this is delicious,’ I enthuse, taken aback. I cut a bigger slice. ‘What is it?’ I ask, savouring the juicy, salty taste. My hangover’s starting to feel better already.
‘Black pudding,’ beams Rose. ‘It’s always been a favourite of mine, too.’
‘Pudding?’ I mumble, as I chew hungrily. Those crazy Brits, I think fondly. A savoury dessert for breakfast. What will they think of next? ‘Mmm, yum, what’s it made of?’
‘Dried cow’s blood,’ says a male voice next to me, and I turn sideways to see Spike pulling out a chair and sitting down.
My jaws freeze mid-chew. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Black pudding’s made of cow’s blood,’ he says matter-of-factly, plonking down his tatty old notebook on to the table and helping himself to a cup of tea.
For a second I’m almost about to heave all over the table. Then I get it. Of course. Spike and his hilarious English sense of humour.
‘Very funny,’ I reply and continue chewing.
‘I’m not joking.’ He shrugs, yawning loudly without covering his mouth. He’s even more dishevelled than usual. He’s wearing a crumpled sweatshirt with some kind of stain on it, and there are dark rings under his bloodshot eyes. ‘You can ask Rose if you don’t believe me.’
‘OK, I will.’ Calling his bluff, I look across the table. ‘Rose, would you believe it, a certain someone just told me that this . . .’ I wave the piece of black pudding that’s speared on my fork. ‘. . . is made of cow’s blood!’ I give a little sarcastic snort.
Rose purses her scarlet lips. ‘Nonsense,’ she tuts, shaking her raven bob dismissively
. ‘It’s not made of cow’s blood!’
I knew it. I throw Spike a triumphant glance. Cow’s blood indeed! As if I was going to fall for that! Defiantly popping the rest in mouth, I make lots of smug chewing noises: ‘Mmmmm . . . mmmmm . . .’
Then Rose has to go and say something I really don’t want to hear.
‘It’s made of pig’s.’
Urgggh.
I’ve cleaned my teeth twice, flossed and gargled with mouthwash, and I can still taste that . . . that stuff. OK, so I admit it’s delicious, but still. Dried pig’s blood? That has to be the most revolting thing I’ve heard. It’s like eating scabs.
Taking a glug of Diet Coke, I slosh it around my mouth and stare out of the coach window. We’re on our way to Winchester to visit the cathedral where Jane Austen is buried, and as we weave through the narrow streets I try to concentrate on the scenery and not my dodgy stomach.
The seat next to me is empty, Maeve is sitting somewhere towards the back, being interviewed by Spike for his article. I bristle at the very thought. No doubt he’s still cracking up about breakfast, but I’ve made a resolution. I’m not going to waste any more time getting annoyed about Spike. He’s so not worth it. From now on I’m going to Etch-a-Sketch him from my mind and concentrate on my trip.
‘We’ll be spending the next couple of hours exploring Winchester Cathedral, so if you’d like to gather your things together . . .’ our tour guide’s shrill voice fizzes over the microphone as we pull into the parking lot and come to a standstill.
Cricking my neck, I stare out of the window and up at the impressive piece of architecture with its intricately carved stonework and elaborate stained-glass windows.
Wow, this looks amazing. As the door swings open I eagerly grab my coat and stand up. I see Maeve making her way down the aisle towards me. For a moment I think she’s going to walk right past me. She mustn’t have seen me.
‘Hey.’ I smile as I shuffle into the aisle next to her. ‘How’s it going?’
She doesn’t turn round and for a split second I almost think she’s going to ignore me, but then she turns and nods. ‘Oh, Emily, hello.’ She seems a little flustered, but I ignore it. Maeve often seems flustered.
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 11