Mine. J.L. Butler
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guessing you told them or they found it in your bag. Wasn’t sure I could manage you up the stairs,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Besides, I was worried about you. You hear all these stories about people vomiting in their sleep and dying and stuff. I thought you might be safer here. I made sure you were propped up. Just in case.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, my humiliation almost complete.
‘The evils of alcohol.’
Neither of us spoke for a few moments. I could hear the rumble of the night bus outside and a lonely tweet of the dawn chorus getting under way.
‘Big night?’
‘I got drunk. I just got very, very drunk. Alcohol doesn’t agree with me.’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘It will be if you remind me never, ever to drink again.’
‘Where were you last night?’
I closed my eyes, my body yearning for sleep.
I’d been crying for a few moments before I realized it.
‘Shit. Are you OK?’ he said awkwardly. He swung his legs out of the bed and came to sit next to me. He was wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts but I was too dazed to take in the intimacy of our situation.
‘I’m fine,’ I said wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
‘Man trouble?’
I made a soft sound of disapproval.
‘Is it that bloke I saw you with the other week? Martin. Martin Joy.’
Looking back, it was strange that he remembered the most fleeting of introductions, but at the time, it didn’t register. I was desperate to talk about Martin and Donna, even if it was with my barely dressed neighbour.
‘I shouldn’t have been too surprised that he turned out to be unreliable.’
‘Rich commitmentphobe?’
I shrugged. ‘He has a wife. They’re separated, but it looks like she’s not exactly out of the picture. I saw them together,’ I said, puffing out my cheeks and struggling to compose myself.
‘And you got totally wasted,’ said Pete sympathetically.
‘I can’t remember how much I drank.’
‘We’ve all been there.’
I gave a quiet, nervous laugh. My hands were still shaking and it alarmed me.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘My lithium,’ I whispered, dipping my head. ‘I shouldn’t really drink alcohol. Dehydration affects the levels of my medication.’
‘You’re bipolar?’
I nodded.
‘Should I call a doctor?’ His young, eager face looked concerned.
‘I don’t know. No. Look, I should go. Thank you for everything. How much was the taxi?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Pete, looking at me intently.
I needed to be sick. I had to get out of there.
‘He’s not worth it, Fran,’ he said as I got up to leave. His voice was cool and measured and in the darkness it had a quiet and convincing authority.
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