put them on top of the fridge? Right at the back so he wouldn’t be tempted but they’d still be there, just in case of real emergencies like this one he was currently facing, a moment of true, genuine need.
He patted his hands on top but couldn’t feel anything. Perhaps they’d fallen down the back? He steadied his feet and wrapped his arms around the fridge to move it, giving it an enormous hug, relishing the coolness against his hot, toxic skin, thinking maybe it would be nice just to stay here for a few minutes, just him and the fridge in their cool embrace. He pulled and pulled but he was too weak, too sleep-deprived, too fucking hungover to manage it. When he finally let go, the door flew open and a cucumber shot out, hitting him on the chest like a missile.
He gave up, leant against the kitchen worktop, breathless, his head pounding, thinking what to do next. Maybe he could go to the corner shop for cigarettes? Then just do a runner? Just not come back! Ah, that only really worked when you were in someone else’s house though, didn’t it?
Fuck it. Fuck it, you moron.
He was giving himself a talking-to now, firm but sort of kind. He knew who that reminded him of.
He held the heels of his hands to his face, stretching the skin outwards, watching his reflection in the greasy microwave door as if, if he did it for long enough, he might actually be able to escape his own skin. He thought of tonight, of approximately eight hours from now, of walking into the pub to face his mates. God, he wanted to hurl.
What was really bothering Fraser was how comfortable Karen seemed to be in his bed. How happy. No sign of post-bender jitters whatsoever.
If she’d just been some flirty barmaid who’d wanted a bit of sexy time then that would have been fine. Not fine, but finer; he would have felt less guilty. But she liked him, she’d liked him for ages, she’d told him last night. Which was just brilliant, just the absolute best.
He considered his options:
Be nice, go for breakfast with her, ask for her number then never call her. Of course all this meant that he could never drink in the Bull again; or, if he did, he’d have to wear a disguise. He briefly went through how this might work in his head and decided it never would.
Say he was going out (which he was, just not for another four hours but Karen didn’t need to know that …) wait till she was safely out of view then go back to bed. The thought of bed, alone, right now, was amazing. Truly amazing.
Tell her the truth: Say he’s sorry, she’s a lovely girl but he was drunk, he’s still grieving his girlfriend and it should never, ever have happened. Can they be friends?
Fuck that. He didn’t want to be friends!
Anyway, right at this point, all three sounded hideous. Especially the last. He felt sure the last would guarantee tears and the last thing he could handle today – especially today – were tears from a barmaid he barely knew.
Norm. That’s who he wanted right now: simple, unjudgemental, chilled-out Norm. Norm, who he’d known since he was nine.
He took his phone off the side, sank down onto the kitchen floor in his dressing gown and texted him:
So guess who woke up today in bed with Karen from the Bull? What a cock. Head in bits. Need some Norm wisdom.
A reply buzzed immediately:
You cock.
Fraser groaned and half laughed at the same time – he knew Norm didn’t really mean it, that that level of genuine harshness was beyond him.
He texted back:
I know, it’s not normal. Today. Any day but today! What’s wrong with me?
He held the phone in his hand, waiting for a reply, and something caught his eye: the photo of Liv held against the fridge door with a magnet in the shape of a beer bottle. He reached forward and took it in his hand. This was his favourite photo of her. They were at a fancy dress party – Anna’s twenty-third birthday. It was a ‘come as a London Underground Station’ party and Liv had gone as Maida Vale.
‘I simply made myself a veil …!’ she’d said, standing on his front doorstep, in a voice like a posh, wooden TV presenter from the 1970s . It made Fraser giggle even now.
He stared at the photograph. She was wearing her homemade veil and a French maid outfit that revealed her comely thighs – she always had fantastic legs – and which plunged at the neck (her cleavage was pretty fantastic too). She was holding a cocktail with an umbrella in it and standing in a naughty-postcard-type pose, doing an exaggerated wink, her wide mouth half open, revealing her lovely teeth. Liv had the best teeth: big, naturally white teeth with a tiny gap in the middle. That was his favourite bit of her – that little sexy gap. Fraser smoothed out the frayed corners of the photo, kissed it and put it back.
A text from Norm:
Mate, chillax. Nothing’s normal for any of us today. See you at 8 in the Merchants, you oaf. Cuddles and kisses Norm x
Fraser smirked and shook his head. Cuddles and kisses? Norm was such a plonker. Then he stood up, rather too quickly so that the blood rushed to his head and he had to put his head between his knees so he didn’t pass out, climbed the stairs to his bedroom, and prepared to face the music with Karen.
TWO
That evening
Lancaster
Mia walked into the Merchants with Billy at gone eight. For some reason, she was thinking of the film Look Who’s Talking, and winced as she imagined what her son must be thinking now: The pub, twice in one day, Mother, and now for the evening? Classy! And wished so much she could explain without sounding embittered and abandoned. This is what Mia most resented about this whole situation, the opportunities it held for mental behaviour: screaming in the middle of the street at Eduardo, slamming phones down, revenge plots and murderous thoughts. She spent far too much of her time, these days, feeling like a character from Coronation Street.
Of course it pissed her off whenever Eduardo let her down, but tonight felt especially cruel. Although she was not one to drag out self-pity too long, she couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for herself as she pushed Billy past the cosy, candlelit arches, looking for her friends.
This was one night, one night out of the whole year, for remembering her best friend whom she didn’t even have any more, and he thought the customers of Bella Italia needed him more than she did? And she’d had a baby with this man?
She had considered cancelling – there was nobody else she could call to look after Billy, after all, since Melody was coming too – but she was too angry, too sad, too at risk of binge-drinking alone if she stayed in tonight and, anyway, she wanted to come, she had to come. Surely, Bruce, the landlord, would relax the rules on the baby front just this once?
But then perhaps not; not after last year’s reunion, which had been utterly grim. Melody and Anna had drunk far too much, got far too maudlin and ended up literally
