Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
The day after the party is actually a fun one for me. Literally every other person I come across in Starshine Cove has a hangover, to a varying degree. I suspected that might be the case, and I’m enjoying reaping the benefits of my enforced sobriety.
My dad is only slightly the worse for wear, mainly because he was tucked up in bed by about ten pm. The rest of the village continued to party without the guest of honour though, and there were still sounds of laughter and chatter coming from the green in the early hours of the morning.
Connie opens the café considerably later than usual, assisted by her fellow zombies, Sophie and Sam.
They all look a little green around the gills when I pop in, and Connie has even turned the radio off.
This is unheard of. She is always to be found in here singing along, sometimes even bopping. Not today though, that’s for sure.
‘It’s quiet in here,’ I tell her, glancing around. Only two tables are occupied, both by families with young children – so young they have a brutal tendency to wake their parents up at the crack of dawn every day. ‘Why isn’t there music? There’s usually music!’
‘There was music,’ Connie tells me, rubbing her eyes and yawning. ‘But it was hurting my brain. Everything hurts my brain. I think I might be dying. Farewell, cruel world…’
She does a dramatic sigh and lays her head down on the counter. Her curls are tangled and knotted, and she looks like a Scarecrow Barbie. I laugh and feel like doing a little jig around her almost comatose form.
‘What time were you up until?’ I ask her. ‘And can I please get a cappuccino?’
Her face emerges from her nest of hair, eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You want a cappuccino?’
‘Yes please. Isn’t this a café, one of those places you can traditionally get such a thing?’
‘You normally have a herbal tea. That’s okay. That’s hot water and a teabag. Why do you suddenly want a really noisy drink that gets made in a really noisy machine? I don’t have it in decaf, you know…’
I smile, and nod. ‘I know. It’s for Cally. That’s what she drinks, isn’t it?’
Connie groans, and waves over Sam. He’s looking just as dreadful, with dark circles under his eyes and a deathly pallor to his skin.
‘She wants a cappuccino for your mum,’ Connie tells him, glaring at me. ‘I think she’s just doing it because she wants our heads to explode. She’s being all smug and pregnant and hangover-free, and I hate her.’
‘As you should, dear,’ Sam replies, patting her on the shoulder, ‘as you should.’ He eyeballs me as he starts to get the machine going. It is indeed very noisy, clanging and banging and steaming, making Connie cringe with every little sound.
‘Wow,’ I tell them, feigning horror. ‘You two are not very welcoming to your customers! One star on TripAdvisor!’
‘I don’t care,’ Connie says, unravelling herself and standing up straight. ‘Do your worst. Now, if you’re going round to see Cally, you’d better take her some food as well. She won’t be on a diet today. She’s not really ever on one, but hangover days are completely exempt from all restrictions.’
I ponder what would be the noisiest food to ask for, but she holds her hand up before I can speak.
‘And no, I will not be frying bacon! You can take some almond croissants, she likes those. The Betties dropped off a fresh batch this morning. How did they manage that? How did they drink all night and still manage to be up that early? Do you think they’re cyborgs, or maybe aliens? ’
She asks this with genuine curiosity as she boxes up the pastries. ‘I have no idea,’ I tell her. ‘But they’re definitely not giant wusses like some people I could mention. Even my ninety-year-old dad isn’t making as much of a meal of this as you.’
She ties the box up with a ribbon, or at least she attempts to. Her fingers and thumbs don’t seem to be working in partnership, and eventually she gives up with a disgusted grunt, shoving it towards me.
‘That’s because he went to bed even earlier than you. And because he didn’t drink that much. And because… Okay, because I’m a giant wuss, I suppose. Now, take your noisy drink and be gone, you witch…’
I laugh – in a loud and very witch-like way – and bid her farewell.
The whole village is subdued this morning, just a few people ambling gingerly around, going about their business.
Trevor is behind his counter in the Emporium, but sitting on a stool instead of standing.
He’s staring into his tea mug like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Ella is wearing sunglasses, pushing Kitty around the green in a buggy, and I notice she has on two trainers from different pairs.
I spy Dr Wong, the vet, emerging from the Betties bakery, clinging on to the walls of the building as though she fears a strong breeze might carry her away.
I make sure to say a bright and cheerful good morning to each and every one of them, with a variety of results.
Most people make an effort, but Dr Wong looks as though she might stab me, so I quickly move on.
You should never alienate people with medical knowledge and access to ketamine.
I knock on the door to Cally and Archie’s home, the one that used to be mine but is now theirs, and wait for an answer.
I know the door will actually not be locked, and that I could just sneak in, but where would the fun be in that?
I wallop the door again with my fists, amazed at how much I am enjoying these petty acts of mischief.
Cally opens the door still in her pyjamas, looking so bad I actually take a physical step back.
Last night’s glamour has gone very wrong indeed.
Her hair is sticking up and out in electric shock tufts, stiff with hair spray, and she has a pack of wipes in her hand.
One eye is clear, the other has mascara smeared all over it like someone’s punched her in the face.
‘Ugggh,’ she says simply, staring at me and then turning her back.
She leaves the door open, though, which I take as an invitation and follow her through.
She sinks down into a kitchen chair and starts scraping at the gunked-on make-up with a wipe.
An empty water glass is on the table, and a wastepaper bin is at her feet, presumably in case of too-much-wine emergencies.
‘I brought you coffee and cake,’ I tell her, laying them down on the table. She sniffs slightly, inhaling the aroma of the pastries like Scooby Doo.
‘Great. Thank you. Did you also bring an intravenous drip and possibly a defibrillator?’
‘Nope. Might have a paracetamol in my bag though, if that’s any help?’
‘I’ve already tried that,’ she says sadly, ‘and it was pointless. This pain is like no other pain a human being has ever suffered. Every movement makes me feel like my head is going to explode. I think the only possible treatment option is the guillotine.’
‘Seems a bit extreme. How about an almond croissant instead?’
She pulls a face but then opens the box. ‘I shouldn’t, really,’ she murmurs, gazing at their flaky sweet goodness. ‘But obviously I’m going to. Don’t talk to me for ten minutes, okay? I can’t do two things at once this morning. I can barely do one.’
I stand up, and make myself busy in the kitchen.
There seems to have been quite the after-party held here, and I do my best to tidy up.
I wash glasses and throw away paper plates full of leftover food, and take what feels like 15,000 empty wine bottles out to the recycling bins in the garden.
I leave Cally to her recovery, which seems to involve drinking the cappuccino I brought, followed by a can of Diet Coke, and then both the croissants.
Eventually she feels well enough to actually communicate.
‘Archie took the girls to work with him,’ she tells me, ‘which I think means he deserves some kind of medal. Possibly a Nobel Prize. He’s usually impervious to hangovers, but even he was a bit ropy this morning.’
‘He’s not due to be using a chainsaw or anything is he?’ I have visions of Archie hanging from a tree holding a lethal weapon, while nursing a headache and a queasy tummy.
‘No. He said it was very much a pottering in the potting shed kind of day, although Lilly and Meg might have other ideas. They’re into K-Pop at the moment and spend a lot of their time watching videos on YouTube, practising their dance routines…’
‘That sounds loud and very lively. I’m sure Archie will love it.’
Cally pulls a little ‘rather him than me’ face and attempts to drag a brush through her tangled hair. It is an epic fail, getting stuck halfway through a stroke and hanging there on the side of her head. Her face is an absolute picture of despair.
‘You look like an art installation,’ I tell her. ‘You could probably call yourself The Morning After and win the Turner Prize.’
I stand up and go to her side, gently tugging the knots and snarls out of the bristles until we’re able to safely extricate it.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘You’re a life saver. That would’ve stayed there all day if you hadn’t been here. So, I’m guessing that the whole of Starshine is broken this morning, apart from you?’
‘And the children, I suppose. Those of us who didn’t drink for ten hours solid. To be fair, George isn’t too bad at all. He actually got a relatively early night – just after everyone sang “Happy Birthday” to him.’
‘I remember that!’ she says triumphantly, which suggests there are definitely parts of the night she can’t remember. ‘And did he get carried home on his throne?’
‘He did, though I think he was relieved to get off it – his servants were a bit the worse for wear by that stage, and there were definitely a few wobbles.’
‘I can imagine. Now I come to think about it, most people were still out on the green until well after midnight, and then a load of them came back here. What about Guy? I don’t think he was here by that stage…’