No Kiss Goodbye by Janelle Harris

Author:Janelle Harris
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Published: 2015-09-01T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

After all Ava’s moaning at me to hurry up, in the end, she takes an hour longer than I do to get ready. I’ve drunk two glasses of wine rather quickly while waiting. I must have fallen asleep because I’m groggy and not really listening when Nigel shakes my shoulder and asks me if ordering pizza is okay instead of going out. I mumble something incoherent, and he leaves me alone.

It’s late the next morning before I finally wake up. My cheek is cemented to the armrest of the sofa. A gooey streak of lipstick and dribble marks the spot where my face has spent the night. I have a horrible crick in my neck and my tongue feels as furry as a sheepskin rug. I’m still wearing the blue dress. It’s twisted around me awkwardly now, and a dark stain somehow made it all the way down the front in a large, obvious splash. I’m horrified at the state of myself. I’m a disaster. I destroyed the beautiful dress and the couch all in one subconscious motion. I dread to think how Nigel will react.

I peel back the blanket that I assume Ava was kind enough to cover me with and dash to the bathroom. I cross my fingers that I won’t bump into Nigel or Ava on the way.

I emerge a new woman. Well, a new woman in some old clothes. I wear a pair of skinny, grey jeans and a loose Tommy Hilfiger t-shirt that has shrunk in the wash and doesn’t fit Mark anymore. I ball up the dress in a towel and stuff it into the laundry basket. I assume with Nigel’s money he sends his laundry somewhere to be washed for him. There is no washing machine in the penthouse, and he doesn’t seem the type to hang out in the local laundrette on a Saturday afternoon. I hope the dress will come back as good as new and it will be one less embarrassment for me.

I rummage my way around the kitchen presses, hoping to find something that I can use to clean the couch. There’s nothing. Not even washing up liquid. The presses are bare of food and the fridge houses just a few bottles of white wine with very fancy labels and a tray of strawberries. I smile as I confirm my suspicions that Nigel isn’t the domestic type. He must eat out – always, or get an unhealthy amount of room service.

I sit on the couch for what feels like an eternity. I flick through all the television stations at least twice. I can’t find anything to watch. I wonder how late Ava and Nigel plan to sleep in. Maybe they’re sleeping off an even worse hangover than mine. I looked around for any evidence of a drinking session last night, but the only bottle on the shelf is the white wine I lashed into last night.

My tummy bubbles angrily. I squirm on the spot when I realise I was the only overindulgent one.

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