witch hat.
I felt my gorge rise.
‘Fanks,’ I said, thickly, as if I was speaking through false teeth too.
An hour or so later, there was a knock.
‘Who is it?’ I shouted, without opening it.
‘A bloody cold cold caller,’ came a familiar voice.
I opened the door. Ben was buttoned up to the nose in his coat. He yanked it down to chin level so he could speak. ‘How are you then?’
‘Phenomenally wank,’ I said delicately, standing back to let him in.
I was self-conscious about being seen in my voluminous cotton comfort pyjamas. The somewhat psychedelic pattern depicted farmyard animals with slice-of-melon smiles playing musical instruments.
‘Where’s your costume?’ I asked Ben, to divert his attention.
‘Fancy dress is a terrible way to ruin a good party. Funny, everyone there is got up as ghoulish and scary, and here you are looking more like death than any of them.’
‘Did you stop by to tell me this?’
‘No, I’ve come to check on you. What’ve you taken for this flu?’
‘Two paracetamol, a while ago.’
Two loose paracetamol I’d found at the bottom of my make-up bag. I had to pick a stray hair off one of them. I felt my gorge rise again.
‘Right,’ Ben said. ‘I’m going for supplies. Save me a space on the sofa.’
‘Ben, you don’t have to do this.’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘Here you go,’ he said on return, passing over the tablets with a glass of water, as I malingered on the sofa. ‘These are the business, but they’re strong. You on any other drugs I should know about?’
‘Only the pill.’
Ben grimaced. ‘I didn’t need to know that.’
I threw them to the back of my throat, swallowing them without water.
‘Jeez,’ Ben said.
‘I have tons of spit in my mouth,’ I explained, pointing.
‘Great,’ he made a sickly smile.
He up-ended the contents of his shopping bag: mineral water, crisps, fat Coke, crackers, Berocca and more paracetamol. He sat down next to me, started flipping channels.
I gave him a sideways look.
‘Don’t you mind missing the party?’
‘Put it this way. The welcome cocktail was something called “Bitches Brew”.’
‘Ooh, do you think it was made from real bitches?’
‘Hard to tell.’
‘Cast your mind back. Did it taste of Georgina Race?’
Ben swatted my head with the TV guide. ‘Caroline said when she left you looked like an orphaned marmoset on a Monday morning. I thought, oh shit, I know that look, and then my conscience wouldn’t let me stay out.’
‘Orphaned marmoset!’ I laughed, feeling inordinately touched at his affection.
I settled back into my half of the sofa and we started bickering happily over what to watch, agreeing on The Breakfast Club.
‘You are her. In a nutshell,’ Ben said, after a few minutes, indicating Ally Sheedy, peering out from under the fur on her parka hood.
‘Compulsive liar basket case? You’re the geek in a jock’s body. You’re Anthony Michael Hall trapped inside Emilio Estevez.’
‘Urgh, what a thought.’ Ben paused. ‘At least you don’t think I’m the jock. Do you know what a girl in halls called me, last year? Bland Ben. Blen.’
‘What? Why?’
‘She said I was …’ I saw a slight colour rise in Ben’s face ‘… she said I was “standard issue tailor’s dummy” and “pleasant” and got on with everyone and that I was blah. BLEN. Being condemned as boring is the worst thing, isn’t it? If someone calls you an arsehole you can work on being less of one. If a boring person tries to be interesting … they’re probably just being more boring.’
‘Utter cow!’ I cried. ‘I bet you, no, I promise you, she was rejected by some lad who looked like you at school and is taking it out on you. There’s nothing wrong with being nice.’
‘Nice,’ Ben smiled, yet winced.
‘Kind, then. Thoughtful. Not a twat. Puts people at their ease. Popular. You are not bland. She doesn’t know you well enough to know you’re not up yourself about your looks. I think she was mistaking decent for dull.’
I realised I’d said more than intended and kept my gaze on the television.
‘Thanks,’ he said, sounding gratified, perhaps even faintly surprised.
Ben opened a packet of Hula Hoops, turned the bag towards me in offering. I took one whiff, jumped off the sofa and ran upstairs to the bathroom, trying to stifle the heaving before the bowl was in sight. After I’d brushed my teeth three times, I returned to the living room, pale and wan.
‘At least your lungs sound strong,’ Ben said. ‘Silver linings.’
‘Stomach lining, mostly,’ I said, and he put a hand over his mouth, the crisps back down on the coffee table and one thumb up.
Half an hour later, despite only Volvic passing my lips, the nausea returned. I didn’t have time to get upstairs and bolted through Derek’s room and to his en suite, trying not to look at anything that might be lying around. I held my hair out the way and heaved, my body aching from the effort when I’d finished, pulling the handle and slumping against the china cool of the bowl. I dragged myself over to the sink and rinsed my mouth. There was a soft knock at the door and Ben put his head round.
‘Better?’
Beyond vanity, I nodded. On the verge of tears in my pathetic physical state, regressing to childhood, I whimpered: ‘I don’t want to be sick any more, Ben. I’m so tired.’
‘I know.’
‘I want my mum,’ I added, barely kidding.
‘What would your mum do?’ he asked, not rhetorically.
I lifted and flapped my arms, helplessly. ‘Give me a cuddle? Make me hot lemon squash.’
‘You’ll have to make do with me and Berocca, then.’
