And I really meant it.
SEVEN
When I woke up the next morning, I felt distinctly unholy; how could monks make something that resulted in such a poisonous hangover? Maybe they didn’t mean you to drink so much of it – but then why make it so delicious? I lay for a moment, my head pulsating with pain, my mouth dry and sticky, and wondered how much worse it would be if I moved. I inclined myself fractionally to one side and found out: unbearable. I lay in my new position for a few minutes, gazing pitifully at the smooth, wholesome edge of the pillow next to me and allowed some wistful images of purity and cleanliness to drift through my head: freshly laundered sheets blowing in the wind; cool water sipped by some healthy woman; a large, colourful salad served to a tanned and laughing family. A tear of self-pity slid down my cheek, and I lingered for a while on how polluted I was, how despicable.
This was the normal procedure for a bad hangover, and after a little more gentle involuntary weeping (even that jolted my head), I knew that it was time for the next phase, as I could not stay prone all day, however tempting. Slowly, slowly I raised myself onto one elbow, then wiggled my feet to the side of the bed, eventually inching up to standing. I clutched my head as I shuffled to the bathroom, then turned on the tap and started scooping water into my mouth. It was the only way to start combatting the malaise, I knew that, but took no pleasure in it. Groping for my sponge bag, I located some ibuprofen and swallowed two, knowing that taking them on an empty stomach was not recommended, but would spur me on to my next task: food. Silently thanking Lando for insisting on casual breakfasts, I dragged my dressing gown on over my pyjamas, slid my feet into my slippers and started downstairs, gripping the banister rail so hard for support I feared I might leave nail marks in it. I could only imagine how William was feeling. He had thirty-five years on me and had drunk twice as much. At least I would have someone to commiserate with. I pushed open the living room door.
‘Penny! How marvellous to see you. Oh dear, are you all right? Here, let me help you to a chair. Was it something you ate?’
I stared at William in confusion. He was upright, rosy-cheeked and fragrant, his hair brushed back neatly and his attire as dapper as ever. He didn’tappearto be hosting a trolls’ funeral in his mouth, or the afterparty in his head. I let him lead me to a chair and sit me down, fussing over me solicitously, like I was an invalid. The rest of the family did nothing more than glance up and say ‘hello’, then return to their books, newspapers and devices, so I whispered to William:
‘How do you look so…well? I feel awful after all that stuff last night.’
He beamed at me.
‘Poor Penny, hangovers are rotten. So I’ve heard. Don’t worry, look – hide behind this copy ofVogueand I’ll go and brief Pilar, she’ll see you right as rain in no time.’
Obediently, I started reading an article on water-based serums, all of which cost about the same as my monthly mortgage but were nonetheless appealing given my current state. Maybe spending hundreds of pounds per gram for one of these tiny, shiny bottles filled with promise would be worth it to quench my parched skin? I wasn’t given any more time to think about it, as Pilar appeared, bearing a tray groaning with food. I must have visibly baulked, because she fixed me with a stern eye and said:
‘Vale, Penélope. You have to eat this, you will feel better. I know you don’t want to, but – meh.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It is good, it will fix you.’
She removed the magazine and placed the tray on my lap, then marched out of the room. Initially, I gazed in horror at the plate of beans, scrambled eggs and toast and the bowl of fruit, but as I picked disconsolately at a fat piece of tangerine, my appetite slowly perked up. A tentative bean went down well, and my confidence grew as I slowly worked my way through it all. Pilar, I decided as I washed it all down with a large cup of tea, had the magic touch.
‘Feeling better, Pixie darling?’
I looked up to see Bunny beaming at me from her perch on the sofa.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to have a drink at all really…’
‘Don’t say another word. William is simplyfrightfulfor pouring alcohol down one’s throat and you’re having such fun you barely even notice. Then he doesn’t even have the decency to feel awful the next day. I have been there, Pixie, and you have my every sympathy.’
I laughed.
‘Thank you. I think I’ll go and see if Pilar needs any help in the kitchen, before I go and get the twins.’
I stood up carefully, but my head and stomach both held up, so I carried my tray through to the kitchen.
‘Thank you so much, Pilar, you’re a life saver.’
‘You must be careful of that badabuelo, Señor William.’
‘It definitely won’t happen again,’ I agreed fervently. ‘I’m not a big drinker normally, so now I’ve had my warning where he’s concerned. Look, can I help you with anything? I’d like to lend a hand.’
‘Okay. I am making these Christmas sweets; you can wash up, then watch and learn.’
I peered in interest at the ingredients on the table. There was a bowl full of almonds, a bag of icing sugar and some eggs.
‘What kind of sweets are you making?’
‘Figuras de mazapán– marzipan shapes. They are always eaten in Spain at Christmas.’
I tried to repeat the Spanish words, feeling clumsy and tongue-tied, but Pilar looked delighted.
‘Good. Come, I will teach you some more words as we work.’
I washed up as she pulverized the almonds to powder in a food processor, then came to sit at the table. She mixed together the nuts and sugar, then deftly separated the eggs to add the whites, all the while drilling me in Spanish Christmas vocabulary.
‘Navidad– Christmas.’
