Page 50

Of course. I’m still at Claire’s. Cream walls, bookcases in one corner, patterned curtains, bright coloured carpet. My back protests as I sit up and I let out a yawn. I’m knackered. That sofa was not as comfortable to sleep on as it first appeared, and by the time I finally managed to nod off it was past 2 a.m.

I’m just attempting to stretch out my back when I hear a yelp of surprise. Turning, I spot Claire standing in her hallway, looking at me in shock, her hand on her chest.

“Morning, Buttercup.” I straighten, and my back clicks again, oh the joys of being in your thirties. “How are you feeling?”

“What are you still doing here, Tom?” Claire asks, confused. Her hair’s still in the bun from last night, and her mascara is smudged. “And why don’t you have any clothes on?”

I scrub a hand over my face awkwardly as I look down. No one wants to sleep in a shirt and chinos so I took them off before pulling the blanket over me, but I’ve got my boxers on. I’m not entirely devoid of clothes.

She’s looking at me sitting on the sofa and there is something in her expression that I can’t quite read. Her eyes flicker to my bare chest and back up.

“Sorry.” I reach for my shirt, quickly pulling it on. “I brought you home from the party. But I just thought I’d stay in case you needed anything.”

“Thanks.”

Then she squeaks, turning bright pink and running back to her bedroom, and in that moment I realise that she was wearing an oversized T-shirt and nothing else. She must have changed when she woke up.

Claire reappears a few minutes later in a jumper and shorts.

“How does your head feel?” I ask her.

“Awful.” She grimaces. “I’m so sorry I was nearly sick on you. Thank you for staying to look after me. I can only remember bits of last night, and I’m sure I was a complete disaster.”

“Claire, I take kids on school trips. Motion sickness is basically a professional speciality at this point.”

To my relief, she lets out a small laugh.

“I’m serious,” I continue. “One coach journey to Portsmouth and suddenly you’re carrying emergency sick bags everywhere you go.”

A faint smile flickers across her face before fading again. She still looks pale, and I can see shadows under her eyes. She appears more exhausted than one bad night should leave her.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Claire?” I ask. “You were quite upset last night.”

I pause. How much should I push? Where’s the line? I sigh and run my hand through my hair.

“You were talking about your parents.”

Her face goes even paler, and she looks at her watch.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

She runs from the room. Huh? I hadn’t expected a response so extreme. I stare, unsure of whether or not I should follow her down the corridor.

“My mum’s coming over in two hours,” she calls from her room.

“And?” I call back. I’m not sure that explains the degree of panic. “Two hours is ages.”

“Not for my mum,” she says. “Fuck, I need to blow dry my hair. I need to iron my shirt again, I need to do my makeup. Oh my god, the house is a tip too.”

I frown. “Surely it’s not that bad—”

She cuts me off before I can finish. “You don’t get it.” Then she looks around the room, eyes widening by the second. “Oh god,” she moans. “I need to hoover, I haven’t hoovered in a week.”

I hadn’t realised that the pickiness extended from fancy galas to house cleanliness. My parents are the opposite, as long as my house isn’t an active biohazard they’re not bothered.

“Do you want me to help with anything?” I peer down the hallway. “I could do the hoovering?”

“It’s fine. Just let yourself out.”