The Hangover
No, not the movie with Bradley Cooper, a tiger and a baby. But the beast that was pinning Maggie to the bed and making her feel like death. Actually, maybe she was dead. Death by cocktail. Blearily she opened her eyes . . .
‘Great! You’re finally awake!’
WTF?
Chirpily sitting on the sofa, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, was Flick. Looking like she’d only ever drunk sparkling water.
‘Ugggghhh,’ was all Maggie managed to say, spittle oozing onto the pillow.
She desperately wanted the room to stop spinning. Nausea gripped her by the throat, while there was throbbing coming from deep inside her brain. Actually, maybe death would be better than this.
‘You’re up,’ she managed to croak, pointing a finger towards a fully dressed Flick. She noticed she had the shakes.
‘I’ve been up for hours, since the crack of dawn. I’ve been out asking questions, doing some investigating.’
Maggie looked at her askance. Well, she would’ve done if she’d actually been able to focus properly.
Because this, my friends, was the difference between being in your late forties and your mid-twenties, she thought to herself.
It wasn’t about wrinkles or life experience.
It was about being able to get completely shit-faced and wake up five hours later with absolutely no hangover.
‘OK, so I’ve made a plan of action.’
Flick was sitting up on the sofa, sipping a takeout coffee, notebook in hand, madly scribbling.
‘A plan of action?’
Groggily, she dragged a pillow and hoisted herself up against the headboard. It was a superhuman effort. Compounded by the fact she was still trying to focus.
‘I need coffee,’ she croaked, her voice hoarse, like a whisper.
And it wasn’t just her throat that was all scratchy, her whole body was too.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied a flash of sequins. Hang on, was she still wearing her dress? Ugh. She must have slept in it.
‘Did I black out? I have no memory of me getting home.’
‘You don’t remember singing in the street? Something about being as hungry as a wolf.’
‘I sang “Hungry Like the Wolf”?’ Maggie was mortified. ‘In the middle of Monte Carlo?’
‘Drew quite a crowd.’
‘Oh my God.’ She clutched her head, then thought better of it as it thudded in her hands. This was even worse than she feared.
‘I must have been drugged. Someone must have spiked my drink. You read about it all the time in the papers.’
‘Nah.’ Flick laughed and shook her head. ‘You were just drunk.’
‘Oh God . . .’ Maggie had to swallow hard to stop the bile rising in her throat.
‘You let your hair down. You needed it.’
‘What I need is a coffee.’
‘Here.’ Flick passed her one over. She’d got two from the takeout place. ‘Might not be very hot still, but caffeine is caffeine.’
Maggie took a sip and grimaced. It wasn’t coffee. It was some horrible-flavoured syrup thing.
‘So, like I was saying, we need a plan of action. I’ve been out already and found out about the cruise ship, and I’ve managed to get online and pull up the itinerary of all the destinations.’
‘Hang on. Rewind. Itinerary?’
‘Last night. I thought we agreed. We’re going to go after him.’
Somewhere in the dark recesses of Maggie’s alcohol-sodden mind, she had a vague memory of Flick saying something along those lines if they won at roulette.
‘That was just the alcohol and the adrenaline talking, wasn’t it? We didn’t really mean it—’ she began to protest, then broke off as Flick’s face fell in dismay. She changed tack. ‘And anyway, how can we? We’re going home today. Our flight leaves in a few hours.’
‘But that’s just it. We don’t have to. I’ve emailed my editor, Seymour, and told him I’m going to take the two weeks’ paid holiday he’s been nagging me to take for ages. And it’s not like you’ve got a job to go back to,’ she pointed out.
Maggie’s face clouded.
‘I didn’t mean . . . what I meant is . . . I was just saying.’
Like a car that’s stuck in the mud and turning its wheels, only to make them go deeper, Flick’s attempts at explanation were only making things worse.
‘It’s OK. No offence taken. You’re right. I don’t have job. I lost the gallery, along with everything else.’
‘Well, then, what’s stopping us?’
‘What about your boyfriend Rory? What have you told him?’
Flick faltered momentarily at the mention of Rory. Reminded of his texts which she’d been responding to with vague replies and emojis, she felt a moment of doubt. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand when I explain,’ she replied unconvincingly.
‘Or what about the small fact that the man we came here to catch is now on a luxury cruise ship in the middle of the Mediterranean?’ continued Maggie.
Actually, this coffee wasn’t so bad.
‘Ah, but that’s just it. I know where it’s headed. Apparently the first stop is Rome.’
‘And?’
‘With the money we can rent a car, drive to Rome.’
‘Drive to Rome?’
Maggie couldn’t work out if Flick was joking or being serious.
‘And what happens if we don’t find him in Rome?’
‘Then we go to the next destination, the next port, until we do.’
Flick leaned back and folded her arms. She looked very pleased with herself.
Maggie observed her. ‘Is writing about local charity fundraisers and headbutting sheep so bad?’ she said after a moment.
‘Huh?’
‘So bad that you want to chase around Europe after The Man Whose Name I Cannot Mention.’
‘We need an acronym for that.’
‘That’s what George says. Not my cat, my best friend,’ explained Maggie, sensing the confusion. ‘Though he just calls him The Wanker.’
‘Come on, Maggie,’ Flick sighed. ‘We were so bummed when he gave us the slip and got away, but now with our winnings we can go after him.’
‘How much did we win again?’
Reaching into her suitcase, where she’d hidden it in her underwear, Flick produced a wad of bank notes.
‘Eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty euros, plus the original two fifty wager, so nine thousand total.’
As Flick said it out loud, they had to take a moment to let it sink in.
‘That’s so much money.’
‘I know.’
They both stared at the bundles of cash, neatly bound in their paper wrappers.
‘With my half I could pay off some of my credit cards, maybe even get together a rental deposit for a flat . . .’ Maggie was thinking out loud as possibilities began opening up before her.
‘Or together we could afford to rent a car and pay for hotels and go after the bastard who stole your entire life savings,’ finished Flick.
‘But that’s just crazy.’
‘Is it, though?’ Flick frowned. ‘Women are always being called crazy, or emotional, or irrational, or hysterical – “the psycho ex”, “the crazy ex-wife” – but we never are. We’re just reacting to bad situations.
We’re taking control and standing up for ourselves and refusing to take it lying down.
It’s not us that are crazy, it’s the situation.
Notice men are never called crazy,’ she added, raising an eyebrow.
A memory of seeing Him last night flashed through Maggie’s mind.
The rest of the evening was a blur, but not that.
That was clear, like she was watching it in high definition.
Seeing him again. The way he moved confidently, the way he looked across the salon as if he owned it.
The way his eyes glossed over her without even seeing her.
But then he never did see her, did he?
‘Don’t give up now, Maggie.’
Instead, he told her she was crazy.
When her gut instinct had told her something was up, he’d said she was being crazy and she’d believed him. She’d doubted herself and trusted him. And look where that had got her.
She thought about the enforcement notice in her handbag.
The wreckage that was her life waiting for her back in the UK.
Why had she really come here? What was her real motive?
Was it truly to help protect other women?
To seek justice? Find closure? Was she hoping to recoup some of her money or get her dad’s watch back?
Or was it to try and get revenge? To make him pay for what he did to her?
Seeing him last night had brought hot flashes of fury; he was going on a luxury cruise while she was about to become homeless.
Or is it something else? a voice whispered deep inside of her. Are you here to see if you still love him? If there is any chance he still loves you? If he ever loved you?
Oh, Maggie.
‘I know when you agreed to come, it was for just one night . . .’ Flick’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘So I know I’m asking a lot.’
Maggie shifted her gaze to Flick. Every scared, reluctant, bruised and battered cell in her body was telling her to get on a plane and go home. But she didn’t have a home. Not for much longer anyway. And after so many months of feeling numb, feeling scared was better than feeling nothing.
She smiled. ‘How’s your Italian?’