The Wedding Shop on Wexley Street. Rachel Dove

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СКАЧАТЬ when she saw a piece of paper on her pillow, some unfamiliar writing scrawled across it. Fighting against the wave of nausea that occurred when she moved her arm from her side, she reached for the paper, her fingers barely grasping it. Hungover was not the word. She felt as though she had been dug up. She could still taste the many, many shots she had drunk last night, along with an undertone of chips she didn’t remember eating. The paper said:

       I had to get to work but thank you for last night. I really needed the company.

       Mark Smith

      A mobile number was underneath the name, along with a solitary kiss. Maria put the paper over her face, blocking out the sunlight from the window by her bed. A flashback of skin on skin popped into her head, and she grimaced. What the hell had she been thinking? Sleeping with a stranger went against everything she believed. And she did remember sleeping with him, however hazy her memory was. And protection? Oh Lord, she couldn’t remember. She rolled out of bed as urgently as she could (which wasn’t very urgently at all), crawling to the bathroom as the contents of her stomach warned her they were about to make an appearance. She had just reached the rim, her fingers curling around the cold porcelain, when she spotted something floating on top of the water. A condom. Thank heaven, the angels, and the makers of rubbers, she exclaimed in her head. The nausea subsided slightly with the panic, and she rolled onto her back, gripping the base of the toilet like an otter trying to break a clam.

      ‘Cass… i… e… eee,’ she called feebly. No reply. She banged her palm down on the tiled floor with a slap-slap sound, as loudly as she could bear with her headache. ‘Cass…’ slap ‘iieee…’ slap. ‘Cassie!’ she tried again, and heard a shuffling noise in the corridor. Maria was just about to shout again when the door opened and Maria found herself staring at the naked man parts of Nearly-Tatum, and the chips made a surprise reverse appearance after all.

      Maria hugged the blanket around her for dear life as she looked at the Saturday morning autumn weather from the cottage window. She was dressed in fresh PJs, post-shower, and was still barely holding it together. Nearly-Tatum, a very friendly Australian otherwise known as Tucker, had made her a coffee and was now making scrambled eggs, in his pants, in the cottage kitchen. Cassie was lying in the armchair next to her, staring pointedly at her.

      ‘Cass, stop!’ Maria shuddered as the sound of her own voice rattled the pickled brain in her head. ‘I can’t talk about it. I can’t even drink this coffee.’ She put the steaming mug onto the coffee table, alongside a stack of law books and two yoghurt pots, spoons still stuck in. She gagged at the sight. ‘Seriously, Cass, I’ll clean this place for you, or hire you someone?’

      Cassie, legs dangling over the IKEA chair arm, waved her away with her rather feeble fingers. ‘I will sort it, chill.’

      The radio was on in the kitchen, and Tucker-Tatum was humming along to Bon Jovi as he clanged pans about. Cassie snuck a look at her, grinning devilishly. Even hungover, and with her Little Mermaid PJs on, she was still quite a sight with her perfect, sculpted brows and long, raven-black hair. Maria looked back at her, flicking her eyes to the kitchen. ‘So, what’s happening today? And what did you get up to last night?’

      Cassie raised an eyebrow and shook her head. ‘Oh no, missus, you don’t get to find out about my night, till you spill about yours!’

      Maria groaned. ‘Oh, Cass, it was a mistake, obviously. I shouldn’t have gone anywhere near a bloke last night. I can’t remember most of it, and I seriously think my liver is dying today. Those shots were little cups of poison, I’m sure of it.’

      Cassie nodded, wincing herself. The smell of bacon and eggs started permeating the air, and they both licked their lips at the same time. A man, in the kitchen, cooking hangover food. It seemed that Cassie had won the morning after, at least. Not that Tatum-Tucker would be seen again after today. He was already on borrowed time, he just didn’t know it yet. It was a miracle he’d even got to stay the whole night. Maria was grateful for the fact that her friend didn’t do relationships, given the man had watched her vomit half-naked, held her hair back and picked her up off the bathroom floor. All done with tanned washboard abs and a pair of Captain America pants he had thankfully dashed to put on. Embarrassment was not the word, but he seemed to take it in his stride, calling for Cassie to help while he cleaned up the bathroom and got to making coffee. Now he was feeding them, and she had even seen him heading to the bins, black bag in hand. Cassie was oblivious to it all, having just helped Maria get changed before they plonked down into their respective blanket forts in the living room. It felt weirdly domestic, the longer they sat there, so Cassie turned on the television. Or rather, she jabbed at the remote on the arm of the chair with a shaky, polished finger. It sprang into life, and she dived on it, hitting the volume button with gusto as the sound of the morning news filled the air. ‘Arrghh!’ they both moaned collectively at the noise.

      ‘Everything all right?’ The Australian twang came from the kitchen.

      ‘Yes!’ they both shouted, wincing again. ‘Yess…’ they whispered, shooting each other a sympathetic look as they retreated deeper into their blankets like turtles into their shells.

      ‘And in other local news, Darcy Burgess – is the honeymoon truly over?’

      The newscaster couldn’t have caused a larger impact if he had parachuted in through the roof. They both jumped off the sofa, commando-crawling across the cream (and slightly stained) carpet towards the dusty TV unit.

      ‘Turn it up, turn it up!’ Maria screamed at Cassie, who was pressing the buttons like her life depended on it.

      ‘Just weeks ago, a certain August wedding was heralded as the crown in Harrogate’s events calendar, with Darcy Burgess, eligible bachelor and heir to the Burgess Tea Company, set to wed local Westfield entrepreneur and wedding planner Maria Mallory. However, on the day, the wedding didn’t go to plan, and pictures emerged from the overseas press of Darcy, looking alone in St Lucia. What happened to the pair? Was Darcy jilted at the altar? The Burgess family have yet…’

      ‘Breakfast, girls!’ Tucker said, an apron emblazoned with the chipper slogan ‘This came with the kitchen’ the only thing covering his half-nakedness.

      ‘Sshh!’ They both batted him away. Shrugging, he put their plates down on the coffee table, returning to sit on the couch with one of his own.

      ‘Where did you get that apron?’ Cassie asked him, looking at Maria. Maria shook her head, transfixed by the screen.

      ‘It was in the drawer, in a wrapper. You know,’ he said, shovelling a piece of bacon into his mouth, ‘that kitchen is pretty grim, almost like no one uses it.’

      ‘Sshh!’ Maria waved frantically.

      ‘Sshh!’ Cassie added, giving him a glare from her mascara-ringed eyes. He snorted, biting off a piece of bacon aggressively at her. She grinned at him before remembering to scowl.

      Maria was glued to the screen. ‘It says they have yet to release a statement. It’s ridiculous, why would they do that?’ The look she gave Cassie broke her heart. She wrapped her swaddled arm around her friend.

      ‘Protection, hun – they have a reputation.’

      Maria sniffed, wiping away a tear. ‘So do I, and a business. I have a living to make, and Westfield is such a small, close-knit place. People talk, and after last night…’

      A vision of the events of the evening before swam into focus and Maria burst into tears. Tucker stood and quietly left for the kitchen, СКАЧАТЬ