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A few hours later, we’re staring at three empty bottles. Having demolished the first bottle of wine within minutes, Lucy hotfooted it across the hall to her flat and grabbed anything alcoholic – which happened to be a bottle of red and some cheap sparkling stuff. We’ve really mixed it up, and our drunkenness is evidence. I haven’t eaten or showered, and my red hair is bunched messily in a huge knot on my head.
We’ve talked for England. We’ve covered every topic imaginable, put the world to rights, and laughed our way through it all. Lucy and I are now firm friends. We’re also prancing around my apartment to Whitney Houston’s ‘I’m Every Woman’ like a pair of overexcited, slightly sad, single nutjobs.
‘We should go out this weekend,’ Lucy sings. ‘Oh my God, we should totally paint the town red.’ She falls on to the couch and attempts to sit up while holding up her half-full glass so not to spill it. And fails. ‘Oopsie.’ She laughs, deciding to neck it before rolling off the couch on to the floor. ‘I think I’m a bit pissed.’ She hiccups and scrambles to her feet, swaying on the spot. ‘You, Eleanor Cole’ – she points her glass at me, hiccupping again – ‘are a bad influence.’ Hiccup. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and spends a while trying to focus on me. ‘I feel a bit sick.’ She starts circling her tummy with her palm, her face going a little green.
‘Oh no, you’re not going to throw up, are you?’ I sober up in a second, the thought of my new rug being decorated with Lucy’s vomit helping me along. I take her elbow and guide her to the bathroom. ‘Put your head over the loo.’
She collapses in front of the toilet, her head dangling lifelessly as she groans. ‘Ohhhh Godddd, I’m gonna . . .’ She jerks and throws up, grabbing the seat of the toilet while I try to hold back her hair. My face wrinkles in distaste as the smell wafts up and pollutes the air.
‘All right?’ I ask, transferring her blond hair into one hand so I can pinch my nose with the other. ‘Water?’
‘Shit, I haven’t spewed on alcohol since university,’ she mumbles, her arse plonking to the floor clumsily. She rubs her palms on her cheeks. ‘Yes, please, water.’
‘I’ll get some,’ I tell her, rushing to the kitchen. I’m back a few seconds later, smiling as she glugs the lot back, gasping before collapsing to her back, dropping the glass to the floor.
‘Come on. Up you get.’
‘Just leave me,’ she slurs. ‘I’ll be fine here.’
‘You can get in my bed.’ I use all of my might to heave her up, looking out the bathroom door to assess exactly how far I need to drag her. I calculate roughly eight metres. Doable. ‘Just don’t vomit in my bed,’ I beg, cringing at the potent stink of Lucy’s sick creeping out of the bathroom behind me.
I practically carry her across my apartment and let her collapse on my bed like a sack of spuds. I don’t need to worry about tucking her in. She grabs my quilt and rolls over, taking it with her.
‘Perfect,’ I sigh, standing back and glancing around my new home, wondering where the hell I’m going to sleep. ‘It’s you and me,’ I say to the couch, taking the fake-fur throw from the base of my bed.
After flushing the loo, squirting nearly an entire bottle of bleach down it, and emptying a can of air freshener, I flop on the sofa and snuggle down. And when I hear a cute murmur and a few snorts, I can’t help but smile at the ceiling. I might be jobless, but it seems I’m not friendless any more.
Welcome to London indeed.Chapter 3One of the things I love most about London is the readily available coffee. Back home, there were no bustling coffee houses. But here, every corner I turn presents the opportunity to have one, and I’m going to indulge in it.
As I push my way through the door of a coffee house the next day, I find it buzzing with activity, and I inhale the rich smell of coffee beans, letting the air stream out with my order. ‘Medium flat white, please.’
‘Drink in?’
‘Takeout.’ I juggle my phone and my purse to retrieve a fiver, sliding it across the counter as I check my emails after getting more data this morning, hoping the job agency has sent through some potential positions. It’s all I can do not to screech my delight when I see an email for a rare and exciting opportunity. The whispers were true. ‘Oh my God,’ I breathe, frantically reading through the information. They’re offering me an interview at three o’clock today. That’s only an hour away. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of notice.’ But then I’m frowning at my screen. They’re not in a position to disclose the company name at this present time? ‘What?’ I question my phone. Why? So I have no idea who I’m dealing with? I read on, being advised to look for a sign that says ‘The Haven’ once I arrive at the address given, before it gives me a rundown of the position, at the same time telling me that the firm is established and renowned in art and antiques. ‘Then tell me the damn name of the company,’ I mutter, as I tap out a reply, accepting the interview anyway. It’s not like I have the luxury of options. There aren’t companies throwing job offers at my feet.
