Haze
I peel one eye open. I’m in my bed. Thank God. For a second, I feel nothing, and then, everything. Pressure squeezes my head and I think my skull is going to implode. This has got to be the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. Josh is not next to me. I assume he’s planking with Tony.
A quick flash of singing badly to Tosca in the back of an Uber springs to mind, and then I see The Big Purple Pleasure against the wall. I want to crumple into the mattress and die.
The front door slams. I hear Josh dropping his gym bag by the door, and then him coming towards the bedroom. The door opens, and Josh has a face of thunder on him.
‘How was the gym?’ I ask cautiously, half hiding under the duvet. He’s exceptionally sweaty today. His black tank is stuck down to his chest. He takes it off and drops it on the ground.
‘Do you even remember what happened?’ he yells. The aggression catches me off guard. I’ve never heard him sound so angry before.
‘I tried to peg you?’ I say with a grimace.
‘You kicked my mum out of your dress-fitting party. She’s in bits. She thinks you hate her.’ He’s still shouting. Of course, this is about his mother, not us.
‘I don’t hate her,’ I say with a sigh. I’m either very hungover, or I’ve just resigned myself to Linda being upset about something all the time.
Josh is staring at me as if I’ve shrugged off a story about a bag of puppies being drowned.
‘I’ll call her,’ I say, like it’s a chore.
It’s clear he’s unsatisfied with my response. ‘What?’
‘Mum and Dad booked us into a space-themed escape room in Soho. Mum wanted to give it to you yesterday as a surprise, but you kicked her out before she could. Our slot is at midday, so we need to go in 30 minutes . . .’
Josh storms out to have a shower. I go under the duvet, away from the very messy world I have successfully created for myself in the last 12 hours.
Maybe we’ll do what we do best. Josh will come out of the shower, and he won’t mention anything about the pegging.
That will suit me and my hangover today.
I’ll buy Linda some flowers and blame my actions on being a Bridezilla.
Then I’ll throw away the dildo, and we’ll get married and move to the countryside.
And the sex will come back . . . hopefully .
. . before it gets to five years. I squeeze myself into the smallest ball possible and scream into the pillow.