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My new friend Eric is giving me an awfully weird stare. Maybe it’s an American thing. I’m definitely too hot. I need to stand up.
“Shit…” I’m on the floor.
“Whoa, there.” Eric’s hand appears above my face. I take it, pull myself up. “You all right?”
“I’m fan-bloody-tastic, Eric. Thank you, friend. Let me get you and your wife a drink.” I start calling my bartender over.
“We’re fine, thanks. I think maybe you should—”
“Three pink thingies!” I say, raising my glass. “Hey, Sydney. Would you be upset if you found out Eric was fucking another man?”
“What the hell, dude?” Eric looks angry. His face has turned red. He stands from his stool, grabs his wife’s hand. “What’s the matter with you? Come on, Syd.”
And then they leave me. Just like William.
On the plus side, I now have three pink drinks lined up in front of me, all to myself. Unfortunately, I barely get through one of them before my pity party is rudely interrupted.
“What in God’s name are you playing at?” Andy’s voice growls like a vicious animal right in my ear.
“Drink?” I offer, sliding a glass to the side.
“Laurence, there are a hundred fucking cameras outside, and look at the state of you.”
I turn around, clap his shoulder. “I-I’m wearing a hat,” I say before tapping the side of my nose. “Shhh. They might hear you.”
“They already know you’re here, you stupid shit. They’re here for you. Someone called me, heard they were gathering here. How do you think I found you?”
“You could’ve called.”
“I’ve still got your phone, dumbarse. You ran off without taking it.”
Oh. My lips feel strange. Numb. I stretch them out, make shapes with my mouth. “Well, don’t worry, M-Mr Cobbe. I will s-smile nicely.”
“You’ll keep your head down and get in the fucking car. Stand up.”
I do as I’m told, feeling proud that I only stumble this time. “Is Eric outside, too?”
Andy winds an arm around my waist, steadying me. “Who the hell is Eric?”
“My new pal. He’s got a w-wife. Like my William. Don’t think she likes me v-very mu…much.”
“Bloody hell. Tell me you’ve not been shooting your mouth off. For fuck’s sake.”
“They’re my friends,” I protest, struggling to keep up with his hurried steps.
“Your friends that probably called the bloody papers. Either those or that fucking barman, plying you with all those drinks. In this state.”
“Y-you never like my friends,” I mumble. “Why do you never like…whoa.” I’m cut off by the clicks of cameras, by bright lights blinding my eyes. My eyes scrunch closed and I hold my forearm to my face, but it still feels like someone is stabbing a thousand pins into my pupils. Unable to see, I trip, start to fall, but I’m pulled back up just as quickly.
“Back off, fellas!”
Ned?
“Give us some room!”
Definitely Ned.
“Hey, Ned,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me amongst the noise. It’s too loud out here. Everyone’s shouting at me. It hurts my ears. And then I feel a hand on my head, pressing down, and I’m practically shoved face first into the back of a car like a fucking criminal.
When Andy joins me, my head rolls to the side against the seat to face him. “Your hair is longer,” I notice, reaching up to twiddle the strands.
He grabs my wrist, throws it away.
“You cut it last week. It’s come back. It m-missed you.”
“Close your eyes, kid. Get some fucking sleep.”
Hmm. That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
My eyes are closed, but the orange tinge through my eyelids tells me either morning has arrived, or the hotel’s on fire. I’m in pain, so that must mean I’m alive. Oh, God… My head feels like it will explode if I move, the temples throbbing angrily with every beat of my heart.
I’m not alone. The breathing sounds of whoever else is in the room is amplified, puffing in and out like a frigging steam train in my ears. I peel my eyes open slowly, the daylight slicing into them like razors. Fuck. It’s Andy.
“Dinnae say it,” I say.
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You don’t need to. Your eyebrows have a language of their own.”
Andy ignores that, although his eyebrows remain judgemental crescents pitched too high on his forehead. “How you feeling?”
I manage to crawl to a sitting position without spilling my guts onto the bed. “Like I deserve.”
I see Andy’s hand move, but don’t register what’s happening until his phone starts flying through the air. It lands on top of the quilt, narrowly missing my bollocks. “Fuck, Andy!”
“You made some headlines,” he says.
I pick up the phone, notice it’s already unlocked with the Twitter app open. There are several variations of the same photo of me, stumbling out of a bar being held up by Andy, one after the other. I’m wearing William’s jacket in every one of them.
