by Olivia Ryan
‘Ghost,’ I mutter to myself, stumbling to my feet, with no more surprise than if it had been an insurance salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness knocking at the door. I stagger to the window. I’m not too sure where I am. Is this a dream? The window doesn’t look like the window in my flat.
‘Hello?’ I say, softly, standing at the window and staring out. Something about this definitely doesn’t feel right. Should I be standing at the window of a strange room, in the dark, talking to a ghost? Am I awake?
Before I have time to decide, a face appears at the other side of the window, making me jump almost clean out of my skin and scream ‘SHIT!’ in such a demented squeak, I actually frighten myself. In fact I think I’ve frightened the ghost, or whoever the face belongs to, even more, judging by the way it leaps back away from the window, its eyes almost popping out of its head.
At least I’m now wide awake, although the alcohol hasn’t done much for my sense of balance. I’m trying to hold onto the window to stop me falling on the floor. Windows aren’t easy things to hold onto. The glass tends to slide under your fingers and if you’re not sure which way is up, it can make you feel really giddy.
‘Katie!’ the ghost is whispering at me now, through the window.
That’s me. Katie. I recognise the name.
‘Katie, it’s me! Open the door!’
Me? Me? I recognise that, too. If I’m Katie, who is Me?
Fortunately, I don’t have to puzzle over this for long, or I’d probably have passed out with the effort.
‘It’s me – Harry! Katie, can you come to the door and let me in? Isn’t anyone else at home?’
Aha! Harry. Yes, I remember Harry. The good-looking one, the one I shouldn’t really have kissed, shouldn’t really have fancied, because I was still supposed to be with What’s-His-Name. What was his name again? I let go of the window and sway slightly, frowning, worried that I can’t remember.
‘Katie!’ comes the urgent whisper again. I can see his face through the window. Not a ghost. Harry. His face looks white and ghostlike, though, in the moonlight. ‘I’ve got the crutches! Look, if you don’t want to let me in, I’ll leave them outside the front door, but I don’t want them to get nicked!’
Crutches? I start to giggle at the absurdity of the word. Why is he putting his crutches outside the front door? And where is the front door, anyway? I look around me at the darkened room. There’s a pillow and a pink-covered duvet on the sofa where I was sleeping. They’re not mine. Whose are they? Where am I?
I hear the crunch of Harry’s footsteps walking away from the window. Holding onto the wall now, I take a couple of steps, trying to follow in the direction that he’s going. A door! I go through, out to the hall. I remember this. I remember sitting on this carpet, some time in the past, crying. God knows why. There’s the front door. There’s a clunking noise outside. I grab the door handle, wrench it open, sway in the doorway, blinking in the fresh air.
‘So there you are!’ says Harry. ‘I was just putting the crutches…’
There’s a long silence.
‘Are you all right, Katie?’ I hear him say, just before I fall into his arms and pass out cold.
When I come round, I’m back on the sofa, under the pink duvet. There’s a cold flannel on my forehead, a glass of water next to me, and a bowl, presumably in case I’m going to be sick.
Harry leans over me and stares into my face.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks again as if there hadn’t been any interruption in the conversation.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to open my mouth.
‘Here. Have a drink.’
I drain the glass. The room spins, lurches, settles down again. I close my eyes, realise that makes everything even more frightening, and open them again quickly.
‘I’ll fill it up again. Don’t try to move.’
I couldn’t even if I tried. I watch him walking out to the kitchen. Slowly, slowly, I remember. This is Jude’s flat. Where is she? Where is Emily?
‘The other two are sound asleep in the bedrooms,’ says Harry as if I’d asked out loud. ‘I checked.’
‘We were watching a film,’ I mutter thickly. I don’t think I’m going to be sick. I try to sit up. Drink the second glass of water. That’s better. The room’s stopped spinning. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
I’m searching my memory. Give me a clue. What happened?
‘I thought you’d given up the booze?’ he says, smiling at me gently.
‘So did I. But…’
But what?
Oh, yes.
Matt. The phone call. I start to cry again, silently. I want to wipe the tears away but I’m too tired. Too ill.
‘Katie!’ says Harry, looking alarmed. He sits down on the edge of the sofa. ‘Don’t cry! What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s over,’ I whimper. ‘He phoned me. He’s finished with me. Dumped me.’ I fumble around, looking for a tissue, and end up wiping my nose on the back of my hand. Very elegant. ‘Her name’s Claire. She’s… she’s a witch.’
‘Christ.’ That’s all he says. But he sounds shocked. ‘Christ!’
‘I can’t believe it! He was so nasty. He’s never been like that before. He said I’m off my head and I need help.’
Why am I telling him all this? Why, come to that, am I sitting here, in my shortie pyjamas, with my boobs almost hanging out of the top and Jude’s pink duvet only just about maintaining my decency, sipping water and with a sick-bowl propped up next to my pillow, crying very messily with my nose running unchecked into my mouth, while the very good-looking man I naughtily snogged on Saturday night, when I should have only been thinking about Matt, is squeezing my hand sympathetically and offering me tissues?
‘Sorry!’ I gasp, grabbing a tissue from him and blowing my nose noisily and very unsexily.
‘Don’t be silly. I’m just so shocked. Are you sure he wasn’t just – I don’t know – pissed, maybe? Angry that you haven’t gone straight home? Being an arsehole?’
‘I think (sniff) he’s probably always (sniff) been an arsehole (sniff). I just didn’t (sniff) realise it until now.’ I start to sob.
Probably wisely, Harry doesn’t say any more. He hands me another tissue, proffers the glass of water again, tucks the duvet around my shoulders as if I’m a sick child with a fever, smoothes it down over my feet, and just sits there, perched on the edge of the sofa, looking at me with grave concern while I get the wailing and sobbing out of my system. At least for now. When I’ve cried myself to a stop, he asks me if I want a cup of tea.
‘How did you know?’
‘Just a guess. My mum always gives people cups of tea when they’re upset.’
He pads quietly out to Jude’s kitchen and I listen to him boiling the kettle, getting mugs and teabags out. I wonder what I look like. My eyes are probably red and swollen and my face all blotchy. Should I risk getting up and finding a mirror, or will I feel dizzy again? Actually the alcohol seems to be wearing off.
‘I must look a terrible mess,’ I say as he hands me a mug of steaming tea.
‘No, you don’t. You look… sad, and vulnerable. How else could you look, in the circumstances?’ He shakes his head and watches me sipping my tea. ‘He’s a fucking idiot, if you ask me.’
I shrug, don’t bother to reply. He’s just trying to be nice.
‘Sorry,’ he adds quickly. ‘That’s not really for me to say, is it. I suppose you love him.’
Suppose? Of course I do, don’t I! We were getting married up till a week or so ago. We were going to have a baby!
At the thought of the baby, my eyes fill up with tears again and I have to put the mug down to blow my nose.
‘Come here,’ says Harry softly, and holds out his arms to me. Before I know it, I’m being held tight against his chest, still snivelling into the tissue that’s now scrunched up in my hand.
‘It’s all right,’ he’s muttering against my hair. ‘Ssh, come on, it’s all right, Katie.’
>
Just like Emily. Just like a friend – a nice, gentle, caring friend. What did I say about men loving us the way our girlfriends do?
I look up at him through my swollen eyelids and just for a minute, a crazy fleeting minute that has more to do with the kind and concerned look in his eyes than anything going on in my mess of a head, I consider kissing him.
I think he sees the idea forming in my eyes. Or in the way I very fractionally lift my lips towards his. Just fleetingly. I notice the barest twitch of a response pass across his face before he sits up straighter, strokes my hair as if I’m the feverish child again, and mutters, so quietly that I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to himself:
‘I don’t want to take advantage.’ He sits me back against the sofa and looks at me carefully before continuing, more clearly: ‘I think, if you’re going to be all right now, I’d better get going, back to my cousin’s place. Can I come back and see you in the morning?’
‘Yes,’ I say, my voice sounding small and tired in my head. ‘Thank you… for looking after me. Sorry.’
‘Don’t say sorry,’ he says, sounding quite stern for a minute. He hesitates by the door, looking back at me. I’m almost asleep already. ‘Bye, Katie,’ he says gently as he lets himself out.
Surprisingly, I sleep like a baby for the rest of the night.
ABOUT HANGOVERS
In the morning, the sun’s shining and the sky’s a delicate shade of pastel blue with a few puffy light grey clouds scudding along merrily. There’s blossom on the trees outside Jude’s window. There are seagulls shouting to each other from the grey slate rooftops down the hill, the world outside looks wonderful and I feel pretty silly for believing that my life was over.
Emily tiptoes into the lounge as I’m leaning on the windowsill, looking out.
‘How are you feeling?’ she whispers.
‘OK. Thanks. Why are we whispering? Is Jude still asleep?’
‘No. I’ve got a thumping headache. And Jude can’t even bear the curtains open yet.’
‘Blimey. I’ve got off lightly, then.’
‘Yes. Amazing. You zonked out almost as soon as the film started. Not that I can remember what the film was. Jude covered you over and you snored all the way through it. We shared another bottle of wine.’
‘What! You pair of lushes!’
‘Ouch! Keep your voice down for Christ’s sake!’ She sits down on the sofa and rubs her head slowly. ‘Well, we eventually staggered off to bed and left you where you were, as you were so completely out of it. Looks like you’ve slept it off!’
‘Well, I did wake up once.’ I give her a quick sideways glance. ‘Harry came back with Jude’s crutches. He knocked on the window to wake me up.’
‘Oh yes?’ says Emily meaningfully.
‘I thought he was a ghost. I didn’t mind, though.’
‘No, I bet you didn’t. Nor did he, I don’t suppose, seeing you in those pyjamas.’
I tug at the pyjama top ineffectively, shaking my head.
‘No. It wasn’t like that. I got up to let him in, but I passed out. He looked after me, Em. He put me back on the sofa and made me tea and . . . everything.’ How do you describe the gentle touches, the tender looks, the feeding of tissues and glasses of water, the silent, patient waiting while I cried and blew my nose? ‘He was… like a nurse.’
‘A nurse.’
‘Yes. Don’t say it like that. He was lovely. He made me feel better.’
‘Hm. And what exactly does his night-nursing routine consist of, eh? Any snogging involved in that? Any quick groping under the duvet?’
‘Emily! You are so distrustful. There was no snogging, no groping, and nothing of the kind whatsoever. He said he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation.’
‘Really?’ She sounds quite taken aback. I must admit, thinking about it now in the cold, sober light of day, so am I. ‘Well, I could have sworn he was waiting to make a move on you, Katie.’
So was I. Actually, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve just had my heart completely broken by the love of my life and am never getting involved with any man again for as long as I live, I’d have felt quite gutted, thinking about it, that he didn’t seem to want to make a move on me after all!
We get Jude up, despite her protests about the light from the windows sending her half blind and mad with pain, and make her practise using her crutches to take herself into the lounge, while we rummage around in the kitchen and find eggs and bacon in the fridge, sliced bread and cook-from-frozen sausages in the freezer, baked beans in the cupboard and all the utensils we need to cook a massive post-alcohol breakfast.
‘If I could only open me eyes,’ says Jude mournfully as we carry her plate through to her on a tray, ‘I could tell you if it looks as good as it smells.’
‘Just get it down you,’ retorts Emily jokingly. ‘If you could open your eyes you’d give us grief about the state of the kitchen.’
Her eyes fly open straight away and we all start to laugh.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll clean up afterwards. It’s not that bad,’ I reassure her.
I’m actually laughing. I’m shocked at myself. I stop, quickly, look down at the floor, waiting for the realisation to dawn again, that my boyfriend has dumped me, that my relationship is over and everything in my life has come unravelled like a terrible old cardigan. I wait for my eyes to fill up with tears again, the way they should be doing. Nothing happens. I must have cried myself out last night. I must be in shock.
‘Mind the carpet,’ Emily warns me as I squirt a good dollop of tomato ketchup onto my plate. ‘You’re not at home now, you know. Jude wants to keep her flat looking half decent!’
‘Well, I’ve no idea how I’m going to keep it looking half decent while I can’t even stand up on me own, never mind push the hoover around,’ complains Jude with her mouth full of bacon. ‘The place will go to rack and ruin, so it will.’
‘It won’t do it any harm,’ says Emily mildly. ‘Ours only gets a hoover once every few weeks, normally when the crumbs on the carpets get so bad we feel like we’re walking on the beach.’
Jude looks absolutely appalled.
‘Sorry,’ shrugs Emily cheerfully, ‘but we’re not bothered about that sort of thing.’
‘We’re all different, Jude,’ I tell her gently as she continues to stare at Emily in horrified silence. ‘Matt and I don’t do a lot of housework either…’
The silence becomes even more horrified. The other two look at me in alarm, waiting for me to realise my mistake and start blubbing. I take a deep breath, concentrate for a second or two on dipping a piece of toast in my egg yolk, and then start again:
‘I mean I don’t. I don’t worry much about housework, in my flat. I like it to be a bit lived-in. Or maybe I’m just lazy. But now, seeing how lovely your place is because you look after it so well, I’m thinking perhaps it’s me that’s got it wrong.’
The other two have gone back to eating their breakfast, looking relieved. Thank God Katie isn’t having a nervous breakdown. Not at the moment, anyway.
Maybe that’s still to come.
Poor Jude. After a lifetime of care and attention to every detail of her personal grooming, she’s now reduced to balancing on one leg in the shower, propped up against the wall, doing the best she can in the circumstances with her soaping and shampooing. By the time she comes out of the bathroom she’s so knackered she actually tells us she can’t be bothered putting on make-up or blow-drying her hair. I look in on her, where she’s collapsed on the bed in her own room.
‘Let me do it for you.’
‘No, honest to God, Katie, leave it. After you and Emily have gone home I’ll have to find a way of managing on my own till Mum gets here, so it’s no good you nursemaiding me.’
Emily brings her a cup of tea and looks at her worriedly.
‘Seriously, Jude, are you going to be OK when we’ve gone?’
‘Sure I am. Mum phoned this morning. She’s coming down for the res
t of the week and after that, I’m hoping to get back to work, as long as Brendan from my office can give me a lift. While Mum’s here, I’ll start working out how to cope with everything.’
‘Did the doctor at the hospital say how long you’ll have the plaster on?’
‘No. I’ve got to go to the local hospital here next week for a check-up. They said when the swelling’s gone down the plaster might be too loose. Then they’ll X-ray me again after a few more weeks and decide if I can start weight-bearing.’
‘Poor you. What an absolute pain.’
‘It could’ve been worse. The doctor said they quite often have to operate on broken ankles, but mine didn’t need that, at least. And I haven’t got to worry, now, about missing the wedding…’ She stops, glancing at me guiltily. ‘Ah, shit, Katie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘It’s OK. No, really, it is.’ They’re both looking at me, eyes wide with distress on my behalf. I can’t bear it. ‘Look, please, both of you. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life – or even the rest of today – being treated like an invalid with an incurable disease that no-one dares to mention. I’m all right at the moment. I don’t know why – maybe I’ve gone into shock and it’s all going to hit me again when I get home. I don’t particularly want to talk about it, but you don’t have to tiptoe around the subject and worry that I’m going to suddenly fall apart.’
‘Well, I’m glad about that anyway, Katie,’ says Jude, still looking a bit uncomfortable.
‘Me too,’ says Emily, giving me a quick hug, ‘because it’s the last day of our holiday, and the sun’s shining out there, and crutches or no crutches, I reckon Jude has to do one final duty as our tour guide, and show us around Kinsale before we go home? What do you reckon?’
‘Absolutely!’ I agree. ‘Stop shaking your head and making all that fuss, Jude – what’s the matter with you? We can help you along, can’t we? All you have to do is lean on us and point us in the right direction!’
And we’re making so much noise, laughing together about a tour guide on crutches showing able-bodied visitors around the town, that we only hear the doorbell at the second or third ring. Looks like we’ve got company.
