Page 19 of Gates of Tartarus

“Eh?” I look down at my plate. “Oh, yeah.” I shovel up a mouthful, chew, and almost spit it out: the potatoes are like glue, and the peas truly are burnt, not just caramelized. Ugh. Maybe the chicken? Tentatively, I slice off a piece and stare at my fork in horror: the meat inside is faintly pink, just like Emlyn’s cheeks. Oh God.

“Actually, I’m not really hungry.” Slop. I’ve made slop.

“Maybe just a few bites?” Kavi coaxes. “I think you need something in your stomach.”

“Mmmmmm.” My gaze lingers on the plates forlornly. Emlyn’s nibbled round the outside of his chicken breast; Kavi’s tried to hide his behind a potato wall; and Jorge’s manfully concentrating on his peas.

“Maybe later.” I pause, then look round the table. “I might just go for a little lie-down,” I announce solemnly. Willing myself not to wobble, I stand up and turn towards the door.

“Sleep tight,” Emlyn murmurs as I float out of the room.

???

I wake up feeling shamefaced and more than a touch worse for the wear. Thinking back to my dinner antics, I groan. Way to make a complete prat out of yourself, Maela! Just because Seef wound you up, you had to go and get snockered. And now you’ve done it! They’re yourhousemates, Maela!Housemates. And, you have toworkwith them. What on earth must they think of you! Hangxiety sinks its fangs in deep and hisses. Emlyn has agirlfriend… well, probably, and anyway you’re not his type. And Kavi’s made it clear that he’s not interested in you that way, because of Jorge… Here, I stop. There’s a chance, a very small chance, that I haven’t been friend-zoned, and I perk up, until I remember how I behaved last night. I’ve blown it, haven’t I? Any chance that he might want to date me instead of any one of the thousands of charming, polite, and sophisticated young women in London has been blown to smithereens.

Lying miserably under the covers, I wait for what seems like hours before crawling out of bed. There’s no way I can face anyone without a fortifying coffee inside me, and I offer up a little prayer for privacy to the goddess of penitent tipplers while throwing on my yoga pants and an oversized, gray sweater. I tiptoe to the door and down the stairs, wincing when a step creaks, but the house is quiet.Thank you, I breathe.Oh, thank you. I couldn’t have borne it. Making a commando raid on the kitchen, and blessing whoever made a pot, I take a deep draught, then creep hopefully to the library. It’s empty. With a sigh of relief, I grab the woolen throw, wrapping it snugly around me, and sink into the leather cushions.

My reprieve, however, is short-lived.

Just as I’m lifting the mug to my mouth, Kavi’s voice booms out behind me. “Morning, Maela! How are you feeling?”

Startled, I jolt, and a little coffee spills. “Fine,” I mumble, catching the drops with my tongue and taking a slurp.

“Bit ropy, are we?” Kavi smiles at me sympathetically. He’s obviously come from a session, as he’s wearing yoga pants himself. The difference is: he looks healthy and well-rested, and I look like something the cat gagged up.

“Please. Use your inside voice,” I beg, closing my eyes.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” Emlyn strolls in, hands in pockets. “This is a sorry state of affairs.”

I open one eye and glare balefully at him. For one moment, one brief shining moment, I had the upper hand.

“What?” His eyes glint merrily. “Sing, Divine Muse, of the fatal wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus, which brought ten thousand troubles on the Achaeans! Or, in your case, the wrath of Bacchus and one small Yank.”

“Hah, bloody hah! Come to gloat, have we?”

“You wound me!” he replies dramatically, placing a hand on his heart and bowing his head, for all the world as if he’s treading the boards like Sir Laurence bloody Olivier. “We merely came to check up on you. Isn’t that right, Jorge?”

Jorge comes in from the hall. Unlike the others, he’s looking a bit drawn, and, if I had to put a word to it, sullen. My brows draw together. What’s got into him? “Morning, Jorge,” I say, voice determinedly cheerful.

“Buenos días,” he grunts.

OK. What has happened to my lovely, kind, considerate, Spanish sex-god?

“Sleep well?”

He shrugs. “Do you want another coffee?”

“Yes?” I gulp the last of it and hold out my mug, which he takes silently before turning and heading out of the room. I look at the others: “What’s up with him?”

“Nothing he won’t get over,” Kavi replies, sitting down on the couch with me. Emlyn takes an armchair.

“If you say so,” I wrinkle my nose doubtfully.

“He’s fine,” Emlyn states confidently. “My poor, innocent eardrums, however, are not.”

Arching a brow in my best Emlyn imitation, I stare haughtily down my nose at him. “Don’t give up your day job,” I say pertly. “Stand-up comedy isn’t for you.”

He grins at me unrepentantly. “Touché! Want to come watch the rugby?”