wheres and whats of the night before. You know the one. I’m scrambling for the details in a cold sweat. It’s a mixture of dread, guilt and fear all rolled up in a bow with a generous dollop of nausea on the side. A vague dream lingers.
I stand at the top of the aisle in a cream lace dress. Barry is looking dapper and family and friends fill the church pews. Suddenly, Debbie from Slimmers’ Club is pointing her finger at me. I say ‘Who invited you, you skinny cow?’ And now I’m naked. Buck naked! I take the cream rose bouquet to hide the cellulite on my bottom. Father Maguire is cackling. I’m running and there is a rabbit chasing me.
The only explanation is that there must have been tequila in at least one of the drinks last night, which is a fatal error and may have accounted for my terrifying nightmare. Tequila and I are no longer friends. We are sworn enemies since our run-in back in 2001 I don’t want to talk about it.
My head has a heartbeat of its own and a fuzzy image starts to tune in. I clutch the duvet. It’s time to work through the checklist and assess any harm done.
Check 1: Male company in the bed? Negative. Only a feather boa and a crushed photo of Barry accompany me.
Check 2: Underwear? Affirmative. Smalls have not been lost slash stolen.
Check 3: Embarrassing conversations? Affirmative. Scan shows traces of whimpering and crying.
Check 4: Embarrassing actions? Affirmative. Scan detects that I skidded on an Abrakebabra wrapper on the street. In addition, scan shows image of me asking the taxi to stop as my kung pao beef gave an encore performance. Scan does not recall making it to the toilet on time.
I brace myself for the final check.
Check 5: Inappropriate use of mobile phone: Negative. Sent box is nil for picture texts of rude bits. Phone log is nil for calls to Barry, Barry’s mother or Barry’s office. Phone records show that the only number dialled was for ‘Soon Fatt’ Chinese restaurant in search of the best curry chips this side of the Liffey. Said curry chips are lying squashed in the bed beside me, I must have rolled over them in my sleep. It’s OK, they still taste good.
The moral of Check 5 is: don’t drink and dial. The use of a mobile phone when combined with a recent fight with your boyfriend is a poisonous combination. I’m relieved. What willpower. What success. What a bender!
I glance at my phone again. Not even a measly text from Barry to see if I’m still breathing, for goodness’ sake! Perhaps I’ll call him to see that he landed safely. Then again, it’s best to wait until the painkillers have kicked in.
I swallow the pills with a grimace. What if we don’t make up? What if Barry ends this? My stomach heaves and I reach for the bin. A text appears from my younger brother Ian.
hey sis. Heard you had a blazer with Baz.
Little shit, I think. I hastily text back.
It’s Barry, not Baz you Neanderthal!
He knows it winds me up no end when people shorten Barry’s name. So common! I reach for my much treasured OK! magazine on the bedside locker. There’s an intriguing article about HRH (His Royal Hotness) Prince Michael and his recent flirting with some model or other. He’s quite dishy for a royal. I’m just saying.
I answer my phone before checking who’s calling – a classic mistake. It’s Mum. News of our big blow-out, it seems, has slipped back to family HQ.
‘Come around for a talk, darling,’ simpers Mum. ‘You can tell me all about it.’
‘Don’t want to.’
I’ve reverted back to a pouty thirteen year old with an attitude problem and raging hormones.
‘I’ve been baking,’ she chirps.
‘Fine!’
Blast Mum and her bribes. In the shower, I have to lean on the tiles for support. I struggle to turn the shower head on and then give up, opting for deodorant and some dry shampoo instead, it’s far less demanding. I drag myself into a pair of old jeans and a well washed jumper. Perhaps I’m actually dying from a hangover. I could be the first in the world to actually die from excessive Chinese food and cocktails, I’ll be in the Guinness Book of World Records. Sweet. A pair of giant Beckham-style sunglasses eases the glaring November sunlight as I fumble with the keys to my Volkswagen Golf. Indicating and switching lanes requires more brain cells than I now have at my disposal, and I need to keep the windows down at all times for fear of vomiting into my lap. Sadly, the mechanism on the electric windows has gone, so this is a manual job now. Also, the windscreen wipers still don’t work and annoyingly it’s raining. Again!
I squint. A truck blasts its horn as it passes me. It’s not my fault I can’t see where the continuous white lines on the road are! My last pay cheque went on a darling pair of diamond earrings, so I will try and get to the garage next month. So worth it, though. See how they sparkle?
I arrive at Mum and Dad’s and try my best not to violently puke in the flower beds and poison Mum’s gladioli. I’d never hear the end of it; she’s highly strung like that. One year I showed up for Christmas dinner with the mother ship of all hangovers, and she still talks about ‘the year I ruined Christmas’ like I’m the Grinch or something. Believe me, forcing yourself to eat reheated Marks & Spencer’s turkey roll when your body has gone into shock due to alcohol poisoning is not pretty. I did this to keep my mother happy, since she kept reminding me of how she had ‘slaved over a hot stove’. Sure, I think I was being rather selfless, actually.
In my defence, Barry and I had been at his work Christmas Eve bash the night before. The mulled wine reception preceded the free bar, so you do the maths. It would have been rude not to take full advantage. I was nervous as hell. Let’s just say that the night ended in robot dancing, ripped tights and tripping down the main stairs of the Shelbourne Hotel.
Mum greets me at the door in her apron and slippers, arms outstretched. Her adorable little poodle, Boy George, scampers up to greet me. Dad is on the landing pretending to polish, but blatantly ear-wigging. He has been given instructions to steer clear. I slump at the kitchen table, my head in my hands. I get dizzy if I move too quickly.
‘Let’s have it.’ Mum sits across from me.
‘What?’ I tickle Boy George on the tummy.
Mum raises her eyebrows. She’s pouring the tea and layering thick butter onto the scones. This will be the perfect cure if I can keep it down. Mum took early retirement last year and Ian has finally flown the nest. Like any Irish mammy with time on her hands now, she bakes.
‘Hello, Fairy,’ Dad kisses me on the forehead.
He has called me that since I was six and had a monstrous appetite for fairy buns. It was rather unusual for a child of that age, he would tell all of my boyfriends who visited over the years, to have such an unstoppable appetite for baked goods. He would then reveal the anecdote involving a plump six-year-old version of me and a note from the teacher saying that I’d pinched a fairy cake from another child’s lunchbox to the cringing boyfriend-of-the-month. The theft was never proven, and I deny it vehemently.
‘Hi Dad,’ I give a watery smile.
‘Gerry,’ Mum hisses. ‘Rebecca and I need to talk.’
Dad
