The Wedding Date Disaster

Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

A fter the afternoon tea, Lulu, having eaten not much and drunk a lot of champagne, is feeling tired, so I take her back to her hotel room, where she passes out on the bed. I take her shoes off, and try to wrangle her out of her dress, but give up and cover her with a blanket instead, setting a wake-up call in two hours, for seven p.m.

I want to call Adam but it’s still before dawn in Australia. I have some time to kill, but not enough to sleep, so I quickly log in to check my work emails.

In my inbox are four emails, each asking me to look at manuscripts or authors’ notes. One is from a new author, Zaneb, demanding a complete redo as apparently the latest edits from a junior editor, Charlie, were awful, and she wants me to fix them.

Tony has been CC’d on her email and he’s sent me a direct email, saying he’s fuming. I feel a rush of guilt run through my body, and quickly write back to him. Don’t worry. I’ll fix this. Leave it with me.

I don’t have time to do the edits right now, but still I consider them in the back of my mind as I rush around getting ready, pulling on a light orange dress that hugs my figure and ends tightly mid-calf, and make sure I get to the ballroom just after seven p.m.

Inside the ballroom, the wait staff are finishing preparing for the soirée. Lulu has specifically asked for the scent of rose to be pumped into the room, and I don’t know how they’ve done it, but it really does smell like a garden in there.

Exactly at eight, Lulu makes her entrance. It’s about the ninth entrance she’s made this weekend, but she nails it. She looks entirely refreshed, wearing a long beige silk dress that looks more like a slip, and makes her look young and innocent, despite the full, bold red lipstick. Very dramatic, and very eye-catching.

She floats across to me. ‘How do I look?’

‘Fabulous as always,’ I reassure her, and when that doesn’t seem to be enough I add, ‘Like a young Marilyn, Ann-Margret or one of the great, classic beauties.’

She smiles without looking at me, and waves at someone across the floor. ‘Now will you please look out for the caterers? I want to make sure all the dinners go out on time. And make sure that Aunty Janice, who’s still a little boozed from lunch, isn’t falling off her chair. I don’t want anything embarrassing to happen. Donna Henry is meant to be flying in later and everything needs to be perfect .’

As requested, I keep an eye on the caterers, the wait staff and Aunty Janice, to whom I keep bringing soda water and telling her there’s vodka in it too. Marla natters on and on about how Donna Henry the Mayor is coming tonight, and asks everyone (even though no one is really listening), who else’s wedding has such a VIP?

Mum is off drinking Sauv Blanc at the bar, and Dad is trying to smuggle a cigar out the back without Mum catching him. Weasel is the talk of the town, having won the boys’ afternoon golf competition, and now all the men love him and can’t stop clapping him on the back. Every time I pass, I have to pretend how overjoyed I am and how amazing my boyfriend is, and it feels like the chief editor job announcement day all over again, looking at Weasel and clapping with a fake smile on my face.

They serve the entrée of pesce all’acqua pazza – poached fish – but I’m too busy to eat. Lulu has specifically asked me to look out for the table decorations, which are goldfish in large bowls. ‘Take out any floaters, would you?’ she’d asked. ‘No one wants to look at dead fish.’ When they’re already eating dead fish, I think, but refrain from saying anything. There are literally twenty fish per table, across ten tables. That’s a lotta fish.

Table eight has the first casualty, and when no one is looking I shove my hand in the water and try to grab it. But fish are tricky and slippery little things, and it takes three times for me to actually get it. Then I’m standing there with a dead fish in my wet hand, and no pockets. I quickly grab someone’s serviette and wrap it up and hightail it out of there into the kitchen where I dump it in the bin.

Next they serve the mains: osso buco di vitellone in tegame con piselli e pancetta , which basically means it’s served from a hot pan with a side of peas or something.

I don’t eat. Instead, I go back out for another round of Go Fish, but my feet are starting to ache and my head is starting to pound a little, so when everything looks fine, I slip outside onto the balcony for some fresh air.

Outside it’s a perfect, still summer’s evening, and all the stars are out. I can’t see past a few metres, where the fairy lights stop. I gulp in a mouthful of fresh Italian air. The scent of jasmine bougainvillea is beautiful. I run my finger along the stone fence that looks out towards the lake and listen to the evening bees as they buzz around the terracotta pots.

Despite how gorgeous it is, I can’t shake the beginning of a deep headache that looms in my temples, a constant throb. It feels like for ever since the last time I slept an entire night. I just want to lie under the covers and sleep for ever. I can’t even make conversation anymore; I’m that tired. What I wouldn’t do to just close my eyes. I do, for just a second, then hear the door open and footsteps coming towards where I’m standing.

‘Hot sex on the car huh? I hope it wasn’t the car from today.’

So that’s why he’s here, to gloat. I open one eye. ‘You have to delete that text. Like yesterday.’

‘Okay, okay.’ He gets out his phone, selects the message, holds it up to show me and presses delete. ‘But at least tell me, how good was I?’

‘Thankfully they didn’t ask for details. That’s not a visual I think my brain could ever delete.’

But of course, now I’ve said it, I think about it for a second. His muscular legs, his strong hands on my thighs, me leaning back, arching on top of the bonnet, my white cotton undies pushed to the side, sexy and innocent all at once.

I should have felt revolted. But instead, I feel hot and sweaty. For some reason my heart does a thrilling pitter patter of fast beats. My face feels flushed, and even though the night sky is cooling down, I seem to be getting hotter.

His voice is low and deep. ‘Gem, are you blushing? Thinking about us on a bonnet of a car?’

My eyes snap open. ‘Absolutely not. You can go inside. I just need a minute, and then I’ll be back inside to help Lulu.’

But instead, he cocks his perfect head to the side and says, ‘Riddle me this. Why do you do everything for your sister?’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Define everything .’

‘I saw you picking a dead goldfish out of a bowl; I’d say that’s quite a lot. And the bunting. And her list of demands.’

I shrug. ‘As screwed up as they are, they’re still my family. And I like my friends and family. I love them. And I care about them. And that means putting them first.’

‘Before yourself?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’s what any good person would do.’

‘Is it though?’ His eyes linger on my face. ‘Who looks after you then?’

His question makes me feel uncomfortable. This is suddenly going way too deep. He’s trying to get intel on me, obviously, and I’m not going there.

I clear my throat. ‘Nope, we don’t need to do this. This gets in deep stuff. We are pretend partners, surface level only.’

I’m about to say something else, but my head starts throbbing. Suddenly, I feel a bit strange, like I’m floating outside my body. Jetlag . I close my eyes and take another breath of Italian air.

‘You don’t look right.’ He narrows his eyes.

‘Thanks for your excellent opinion, Doctor, but I am absolutely fine.’ My head starts spinning.

‘Are you sure? You look like you’re going to pass out.’

‘I’ve been looking after myself for thirty-something years, and I think I’ve got this.’ I take a deep breath and feel a wave of heat and nausea flush through me.

He takes a step towards me and reaches out to my forehead with his palm but I tense at him coming towards me, especially after that kiss, so I duck and say, ‘Can’t tell where those bad boys have been.’

But as I duck, I feel a bit dizzy and reach out for the railing, but it’s further away than I thought, and I start to lean into absolute air. In these heels that’s a dangerous thing to do and I teeter for a second and can tell exactly what’s going to happen: I’m going to trip and fall. Except Weasel steps in and suddenly his hands are catching my shoulders, holding me, stopping me from falling any further.

‘You’re hot,’ he says, pretending to care.

‘Oh God, this is how you do it.’ I straighten up, refusing to buy into this terrible charade. How predictable, I think, trying to get girls to literally fall into his arms. I shake off his arms. ‘With all these cheesy lines. You know, you should be the one editing romcoms.’

‘No, Gemma, I mean really, you’re hot. You’re burning up.’

I step away from him, put my hand on my cheek, and it does feel a little warm. ‘I’m tired, I’m jetlagged and I’ve got a deadline to meet. And it’s hot in there. Out here too. And there are so many fish.’ I’m not sure what I’m saying.

He stares at me. ‘You know, you really don’t look great.’

‘Exactly what every girl wants to hear,’ I say dryly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to get back in. More speeches,’ I say, heading back towards the door before he can say anything else.

Inside, I retrieve three more dearly departed goldfish. As I’m dumping their poor bodies in the trash can, I text Adam.

Not feeling the best – so many things happening. Need a holiday from this holiday. Wish you were here to give me a big hug. How are you?

‘Oh Gemma, there you are!’ Lulu grabs me. ‘I want some photos for Insta, will you take them?’

For the next twenty minutes, Lulu and Mia perfect their head tilt, and then pretend to walk towards me, and look straight into the camera in a provocative way that makes me feel almost uncomfortable. I hold the phone vertically, horizontally; I do slow-mo’s and what feel like a thousand boomerangs or zoomies or something. By the end I can feel my legs shaking, and I’m sweating from places one shouldn’t – feet, calves, neck and inner thighs.

Before I can sit down, Mum corners me at the table, ‘Oh wasn’t today just splendid? Now Dad and I want to come out and do a caravan trip around Australia! Can you imagine? We think it will take about three months. Can we stay with you and Adam for a while, when we get there?’ She peers at me. ‘Gemma? Are you okay?’

‘Fine, Mum, I’m great and yes, that sounds like a good idea.’

Thankfully everyone is shushed just then because it’s speech time, which means I actually get to sit down. I didn’t even know rehearsal dinner speeches were a thing, especially after yesterday’s long torturous hours, but apparently they are.

I collapse into the chair, sticky and sweaty, with a throbbing head, and hope I can keep my eyes open for the next hour, or at least pretend to. Dessert has been served and in front of me is a sticky sweet dark chocolate dome. I take my spoon and dig into the centre. The middle is a river of chocolate lava, and I should like this. I should love it, but I don’t want a bite. My mouth waters, but not in a good way. Miserably, I put down the spoon.

Weasel is staring at me from across the table with raised eyebrows, acting as if he’s concerned. He’s looking at me like he’s a member of the Italian First Aid Army, like he’s going to lay me down on the middle of the table and perform every type of examination to find what’s ailing me. Like he’s suffering because he’s not showing everyone the wonderful boyfriend he is. And I know it’s all for show. I want to growl at him, I’m fine, but I don’t even have the energy. So I just shrug, close my eyes, and lean back in my chair.

The groomsmen get up and do a quick roast of Chip, but since he’s a good Eton boy, there is barely a thing to say about him, with the exception of why everyone calls him Chip – because once he found one and ate it on the floor in the middle of a school assembly. Very mild. I’m disappointed. I’m also sweating from inside my elbows.

There’s a quick break while the hotel sets up for the final speech, which apparently requires a projection screen. Of course it does. Perhaps there’s also a cannon and a twelve-army salute. I know I’m being surly, but I can’t help it, I feel like I’m at the wedding of European royalty.

Instead of sitting at the table, with Weasel shooting me pretend-to-care looks, I do another round of Go Fish, and thankfully, all remaining fish are surviving so far. Back at the table, I slide into my chair, and drink another glass of water. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but I do start to feel a little better.

Someone gets up to the mic. It’s Amy and Mia, and I think, Are we going to have a repeat of the other night? Another rhyming poem? But this time they have a slide show that is going to go through a roast of Lulu. This will be interesting, I think, because what can you roast Lulu about?

It starts off with how she came into the world, and there are photos. So many photos. For the next twenty minutes, it’s photos of her early birthdays. Photos of Lulu being the grinning centre of attention. Photos of Lulu as a baby. Photos of Lulu at four, and five and six. In some of the photos, I catch a glimpse of myself, off to the side wearing a balloon skirt and fluoro leg warmers. I hope no one notices.

Amy keeps repeating how Lulu has always been amazing. And now Lulu is seven, and eight, and nine. I wonder if we’re going to have to sit through the entire photo collection of Lulu’s life, when Lulu’s tenth birthday party photos fly across the screen. And Mia smiles and my stomach drops and I’m thinking, No , no, they won’t. They can’t .

This is a wedding, about Lulu and Chip. I don’t feature; I don’t factor. They can’t possibly tell a story about me.

The slide show flips from an image of Lulu to another photo. Slightly grainy. I gulp. They’ve blown it up, but I know the photo. It’s me in my Keppers, and Mia is laughing hilariously as she starts telling the entire story, ending with calling me ‘Gem-man!’

I feel mortified. Everyone is roaring with laughter, and I’m pretending to laugh too, but my eyes are hot with tears. Mia and Amy go through another set of photos of Lulu as a teenager, then at university, but I can’t see a thing. My face is burning red with shame. I am telling myself not to cry. I can’t even imagine what Weasel is doing, laughing too, I bet. I refuse to look at him.

To sit there for another ten minutes while they finish their speech feels positively unbearable. But I do it. I do it because I am Gemma, and I will get through this, and because if I stand up I’ll draw way more attention to myself. Don’t cry , I keep reminding myself.

At the end of their speech, Amy and Mia get a roaring round of applause, and even though I can’t feel my feet, I stand up to go and find anything, a wine, a bathroom, a place I can guillotine my own head.

Uncle Jonathon stops me on the way, and in his own deaf way, shouts, ‘THAT WAS HILARIOUS. GEM-MAN!’

I nod and laugh it off . But really, why did I think this was going to go any other way than it does every time I’m with my family?

All I want is to hear is a familiar voice. Adam . I dig my phone out of my tiny silly bag, and dial his number. This time it rings – I have signal! But it rings out. I message him:

Everything going to shit. Please call me.

It says delivered, but unread. Damn .

I feel terrible, my head is pounding and I desperately want to leave but I can’t; I’d never hear the end of it. My cheeks burn with shame.

I look for my mum. I need a big hug. But she’s talking to someone I don’t know, and when she catches my eye she just gives me a smile and a quick wave. I had hoped things had changed, but they haven’t. My family are oblivious to me hurting; they are so used to me being fine – just as I am so used to saying I am – and we are all guilty of sweeping things like this under the carpet. If I said something I’d never hear the end of it. They’d all look at me perplexed and say, But it was only a joke . And then I’d be Gemma who can’t take a joke, or Gemma who makes mountains out of molehills. Whatever way you look at it, I can’t win.

It makes me want to cry – and this is why I wanted Adam here, the real Adam. Although he’s slightly allergic to emotions, he would have hugged me, or squeezed my hand reassuringly and walked me back from the brink. Because it felt bleak out here, being ridiculed in front of hundreds of people.

‘Fuck me ,’ I mutter, as the night’s events really hit me. I will cry about this later, when I’m alone. For now, I need a drink, stat.

Standing in line for a champagne, my stomach clenches. I swallow the lump in my throat. I feel the prickling of tears behind my eyes. Look up. I read somewhere if you look up you can’t cry. But it’s too late, one tear has escaped. A guy standing next to me notices, and steps away. That’s the thing about the English: we’re worried crying is like a contagious disease.

I wipe away the tear and blink more away. My cheeks feel very warm to the touch. When I think about it, my arms feel like a melted firepit. And why are the back of my knees so hot? The headache has returned with a throb.

Outside the window, besides a few fairy lights, the entire world is in total blackness. If I had the confidence to just walk outside and keep walking I wonder where I’d end up. Perhaps I’d sprain my ankle in a ditch. Or end up eaten by wolves in the woods. Or be kidnapped by thieves. I’d go willingly. Anything would be better than this.

The thought grabs me. Over here, without Han and Adam, I’m really fucking alone. What idiot does this to themselves?

The bartender looks at me. ‘ Sì? ’

I order a tequila shot – because why not – with a champagne chaser. May as well get fucked up and blot this night out as much as possible. I feel another tear trail down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away.

‘Gemma.’

Weasel. The last person I want to see. I can only imagine the ridicule, for the rest of eternity. Remember that time you were called a man and it made you cry?

But I won’t let my guard down. This is the guy who wants my career to be over. This is perfect for him. I can’t be weak, I have to be strong. So I do the most mature thing I can: I ignore him.

‘Gemma.’ Not a question or a sentence, just my name again, thick, on his tongue. When I don’t respond, he adds, ‘Are you okay?’

I swallow hard, and look down in my purse as if I need to scrounge up some money for the free drinks at the bar. ‘I’m fine.’

‘C’mon, you can’t be fine.’

He steps forward, but I continue to look away. It’s uncomfortable having him this close behind me. Despite trying to be strong, I can feel the lump in my throat. More tears gather in my eyes and if I blinked hard they’d run down my cheeks.

‘That was pretty brutal.’

I refuse to look at him, and try to be nonchalant. ‘Just another day in Evans heaven.’

‘Those bridesmaids, even your sister … that was horrible.’

I feel a sudden instinct to leap to their defence, They didn’t know better, they thought it was funny , maybe I’m taking this to heart unnecessarily . But my head is pounding, and my skin feels flushed, and the world is getting blurry and a bit topsy turvy, so I just shrug.

‘Surely you’re going to say something?’

‘Mmm.’ No, actually, Weasel, I am not.

‘Do you want me to say something?’

Absolutely not, are you insane? Have you seen my family? I’ll be crucified for spoiling Lulu’s day.

I swallow the lump in my throat, still not looking at him. ‘Nope. It’s fine.’

He sighs. I can tell he’s exasperated with me, the way cocky people who are confident and gorgeous get with mediocre-looking people who keep the peace and try to sweep things under the rug.

‘Are you going to look at me?’

‘I’m buying a drink.’ I know it sounds petulant, but I’m buying time trying to compose myself, so he doesn’t see me disappointed, insecure and vulnerable.

‘I can see that, but conversations are usually face to face, not to the back of someone’s head.’

I’m not in the mood for Weasel, but I can see he will follow me around until I give him what he wants, persistent little twat.

Finally, I brace myself and turn around. His eyes quickly flick over my tell-tale red cheeks. I thought his face would be predictable – laughing, or winking, or doing that lopsided grin – but now I see something I hadn’t seen before. His jaw clenches as he takes in the state of me and it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking but I’m sure it’s not good. I can see him narrowing his eyes, and he obviously thinks that having your faux girlfriend teased and ridiculed is embarrassing. I bet this has never happened in his life, that he’s always been the ridiculer, not the ridiculee. Is that even a thing?

‘I’m tired. Headache too. So whatever smart comment you want to make, save it. Oh and apologies, your royal highness, for bringing you into the gutter with me.’

‘Gutter?’ He does a good job of looking like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

‘Yes, your wagon is hitched to mine, so that makes you the not so proud boyfriend of…’ I couldn’t even bring myself to say it. Gem-man .

‘Gemma, stop.’

He moves towards me, and for a second, in my silly shame stupor, I think, He’s going to hit me , but then it dawns on me. There are two arms. Weasel is going to hug me.

‘Don’t.’ I step away from him.

It’s the last thing I need right now. If someone so much as touches me, I’ll lose it. I’d crumble into a pile and sob. Just his attempt to be nice has tears already forming in my eyes, and my throat has that lump it gets when you’re about to bawl. I’m right on the precipice of tears and any sort of kindness could push me right over.

‘Are you okay?’ He doesn’t sound sarcastic or full of pity. He sounds kind . For a second our eyes meet, and I can swear he actually looks sorry.

Fuck .

I know it’s going to happen before it does. As I close my eyes, a few tears slide down my cheek, without warning.

His eyes flicker with surprise. ‘Gemma, I…’

Before he can say anything else, I hold up my hand as if to say, Stop, please . Thankfully he does. I step away from him, so I’m out of touching distance.

‘It’s just a headache … makes me cry…’ I mutter, grab my tequila shot from the bar and knock it back quickly. But instead of it giving me a sense of relief, it burns incredibly badly. ‘Ugh.’ I feel a sudden urge to spit it out.

A hot wave comes over me. Then a mix of chills and hot flushes start in my toes, and run up and down my body. Parts are sweating, and other parts shivering. My head keeps spinning and my stomach is cramping.

‘Uh-oh.’ Suddenly a shiver goes up and down my body and not in a good way. I feel like vomiting and crying all at the same time. My head is pounding so much that I can’t even position it in any way to make it stop. My throat feels thick and my tongue furry. Maybe I’ve picked up something on the plane. I step away from the bar, leaving my champagne there.

‘You okay?’ Weasel is saying, but it sounds far off, distant, and slow.

I swallow the saliva in my mouth. My feet are aching and almost without thinking I slip off my shoes and pick them up. If only I could tip toe out of here, head to my room for a quick lie down and have a cold shower.

I can see a group of people, including Aunty Janice and half the wedding party, are clustered around an older lady with a perfect grey bob by the gold-embossed ballroom entrance. It looks as though she’s just arrived. Wearing a two-piece fuchsia suit, she’s clearly left a trail behind of her perfume, which has a strong musk and spice. Normally that would be delicious, but any smell right now makes my stomach cramp more. I put a hand on my belly and warn it, Not now.

I walk quickly towards the large doors, determined to sneak away quietly, when a shadow steps across my path.

‘Gemma.’ Lulu gives me an accusing glance, as if I’ve already spoiled her night. She gives me a once-over, looking at my shoes in my hands. She whispers furtively. ‘That,’ she points to the fuchsia woman, ‘is Donna Henry. The MAYOR. Do not embarrass me.’

‘Yep.’ I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s all lost to the cotton fluff that my brain has become.

Weasel appears next to me, like one of those annoying whack-a-moles just popping out from anywhere. ‘You look weird.’

‘I…’

‘Gemma?’

‘I…

I start to walk around Lulu because it feels urgent now. Something is going to come out, and I can’t tell which end. I need the bathroom and I will myself to just run. But my stomach suddenly cramps. God. I won’t make it. Just before the ballroom entrance I turn without warning and heave some horrible green bile into a poor pot full of pink pansies.

‘Gemma, what are you doing ?’ Lulu hisses, absolutely horrified.

Many of the other guests have heard me too and they are standing with mouths like big Os as I wipe the spit from my mouth. Donna Henry pauses just a few metres away, looking over at the doorway, wondering whatever the commotion could be.

Lulu gives me a look of utter disgust, as if I were a diseased leper asking for a full body massage. ‘Don’t you know the mayor is right here,’ she hisses. ‘And you go and get so drunk you vomit in a ballroom pot plant at a five-star hotel. TAKE IT AWAY,’ she yells at a waiter, who looks horrified at her demand, but starts pulling it away.

‘I’m not drunk, I’m sick,’ I manage to say as the entire world starts spinning.

‘Sick?’ Lulu gasps, looking me over. ‘Well, keep your distance from me. I can’t have a bug on my wedding day.’

It’s coming again. This time, I push past Lulu and run through the open ballroom doors and into the foyer where the wedding party has moved. With urgency I turn right, and run towards the bathroom, trying to lock it behind me, and dash into the first cubicle. A whoosh of heat comes over me. Feeling dizzy, I turn around and vomit into the toilet. Finished, I press my hot forehead against the cool door.

I hear someone coming into the bathroom, which means I didn’t lock it like I’d thought.

I try to say, ‘Go away, I’m in here,’ but the retching feeling comes over me again. The hot and cold chills. My stomach spasms. I lean over and vomit again, feeling like I can’t breathe. When I finish I flush the toilet, feeling shaky.

A voice says, ‘I knew you were sick.’ It’s him.

‘Go away.’

I hear the tap being turned on in the sink, then off.

‘Really, Ben, please go away.’ Shaking, I sit down on the rim of the toilet. He’s the last person I want to see me like this.

‘Come out, Gemma, you can’t stay in there all night.’

‘Can’t I?’ My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone very far away.

‘Well, maybe near a toilet, but not actually in a toilet.’

I want to stay in there for ever. But he’s right. I can’t. I unlock the door and am greeted firstly by Weasel with a towel that he’s soaked in cold water, and then by my reflection. I’m white and pasty and my eyes are huge.

‘Oh shit, you look terrible.’

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, leaning over the sink and splashing cold water on my face, which feels so hot that you could cook a big breakfast on it. The thought of breakfast makes me almost gag. I dry retch into the sink but nothing comes out. Weasel puts the compress on my neck and it feels wonderful.

‘I need to sit down.’ My knees feel like jelly and I suddenly have no energy at all.

‘Wait, I’ll take you to your room.’ Weasel ducks his head under my arm.

‘No, no, I can do it myself,’ I say, thinking, I’ve got this. I can do it.

‘Let me help.’

‘I’ll probably vomit on you.’

‘That’s okay, I’ll have a shower.’ Before I can say anything else, he opens the door, grabs me and lifts me off the floor. My legs fold easily over his left arm. He grips the train of my dress, and twists it in his hand, so tightly and securely, I feel like a ventriloquist’s doll.

I lean my head against his right shoulder. All I smell is him, sharp, sweet, and refreshing, wood and earth on a cold day, which strangely settles my stomach. He strides across the foyer. The entire room is spinning like I’ve had fourteen rounds of tequila shots.

Someone comes over and asks if I’m okay, and I can’t see who it is because the room is spinning, and I hear Weasel tell everyone, ‘She’s fine.’

It seems to take for ever to get to my room. My eyes lose focus. I am extremely hot, then shivering and cold. Inside the room I fall onto the bed. Something is tugging at my feet. I think it’s a shark. ‘Is there a shark?’ I ask.

‘Shoes,’ I hear a voice say. Something heavy and warm is on my head. ‘You’re burning up.’

In the spinning room and through the waves of nausea, I say, ‘I have to work. Tony’s edits.’

‘Later.’

‘Have to. Promised.’ But the waves of tiredness, of fever wash over me. ‘Please, can you get my laptop.’ I point towards what I think is the corner of my room. ‘Password is Shakespeare.’ I try to keep my heavy eyelids open, and manage to murmur, ‘In the writing folder… Edits… Don’t open the other one … under any circumstances … not the one called Stars, Food, Love . Don’t go snooping. Can you just pass it to me…?’ I yawn and shiver as the fever turns cold. I can feel my eyelids getting heavy.

Instead of a laptop, there’s a glass of water in my hand and someone helps me take a sip. My mouth tastes like hot acid. Then there’s a cold towel and it’s beautiful and then it’s too cold and I shiver and a blanket, soft and heavy, rests on top of me. And there’s a hand – warm, reassuring – on my arm, and when it leaves, I reach for it, and it’s back.