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I snort. “Oh my God.”
“And you’re starting golf lessons next Monday.”
“What?”
“It’s all slowly coming back to me. I’ll update you as and when the information lands. Fuck!” she gasps. “You’re with him.”
“He’s not happy either.”
“God, we’re such disappointments. Elijah! No, don’t eat Aunty Abbie’s lipstick. I’ve got to go. I think I might throw up again, and I need to clean the hallway carpet.”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“We didn’t see Nick last night, did we?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“He’s been calling me.”
“Maybe he heard you’re shacked up with the richest, fittest man in England.” She hangs up, and I shudder. Fuck, I hope not. My phone rings a second later.
“Oh my God, I think I’m dying,” Abbie groans.
“How the hell did we get so drunk?” I’m blaming my lunchtime tasting session, which means this is all Jude’s fault.
“Copious amounts of cocktails. You needed it after an encounter with that prickly thing.”
“Katherine,” I gasp. “Shit, I forgot about her.”
“You see, there are some benefits to complete obliteration.”
I rub at my pounding head. “I’m not drinking again.”
“Me either. I want to dislike Jude Fuckboy Harrison, but it feels wrong, given we’d probably still be trying to remember where we live if it wasn’t for him.”
“He wants me to meet his brother.”
“Ohh, that sounds serious. Do fuckboys usually introduce their fuck buddies to their brothers?”
“Stop it.”
“I’ve got to go. I think I’m going to throw up, and Lloyd will never talk to me again if I don’t make it to a toilet this time.” The line goes dead, and I place my mobile down on the counter, wondering why the hell Nick’s called me. Is it just Nick being Nick, still hoping? Or has he found out I’m seeing someone? I could message and ask. But I really don’t want to.
So I go take a shower instead and get dressed in last night’s clothes, using my lip and cheek stick to try and make myself look less dead. I inspect myself in the mirror, roughing up my waves and blinking rapidly to try and moisten my dry eyes. Eye drops. I need eye drops. Would Jude have eye drops? I pout and open one of the cupboards under the sink, recoiling at the amount of man products in there.
Crouching, I scan the masses of shower gels, lotions, and potions, sending a mental thanks to the eye drop gods when I spot a bottle. I pluck it out, faltering when something catches my eye.
A box of pills. I reach for it and read the label. “Antidepressants?” I quickly put the box back, shut the door, and stand up straight, staring forward, my delicate head spinning. He suffers with depression?I’m a fuckup.Biting my lip, I come over so guilty, but also empathy steams forward. He lost both his parents so close together. It’s no wonder. Does he still take them? Need them?
I can’t ask. But . . .
Full of shame and unable to stop my curiosity, I crouch and open the cupboard again, checking inside the box. There are four strips of pills, and only two have been taken from one strip. I scan the label on the box that details Jude’s name, his address. The date. My gut twists, my worry and uncertainty unstoppable. He was prescribed these last month?
I jump when my phone dings, stuffing the strips in the box and putting them back, closing the cupboard.
Did you fall back into bed?