Chapter Eleven
‘Beep-beep-beep . . . beep-beep-beep . . .’
The next morning I sleep through my alarm and wake up with only ten minutes left to make it in time for breakfast. Not that I feel like breakfast. I have the worst hangover.
My tongue feels like a small furry animal, my mouth tastes like a sewer, and that alarm is like a pneumatic drill boring through my skull.
‘Shuddup.’
I hit the ‘snooze’ button for the umpteenth time and let my arm flop down onto the bedspread like a leaden lump.
It still feels like the middle of the night.
Probably because back in New York it still is the middle of the night .
. . For a joyous, fleeting moment I imagine I’m back home in my apartment and I can sleep for hours, and hours, and hours . . .
But I’m not. And I can’t.
I have to get up.
The alarm starts beeping again.
Like now.
Dragging myself out of bed, I stagger zombie-like – eyes closed, arms outstretched, groaning loudly – into the bathroom.
Once I’ve taken a really hot shower I’ll feel a lot better.
There’s no better hangover cure than being blasted by strong jets of water for five minutes to wake you up, I tell myself, thinking back to my power shower in my apartment and the countless times it’s brought me back to life.
God, it’s just what I need. Tugging off my pyjamas, I blearily open my eyes. It takes a moment to focus, and then—
No. Surely not. It can’t be.
This is the shower?
A few minutes later and I’m standing shivering in the small, pink, plastic bathtub, sprinkling myself with a sort of brass hose-type attachment.
Having shampooed my hair, I’m now trying to rinse it with the feeble trickle of lukewarm water, but it’s not easy.
I seem to be doing a better job of rinsing the flowery wallpaper than my scalp.
Plus, it’s really difficult to get the temperature right.
I fiddle with the taps. It’s either freezing cold or—
‘Argghhhh.’
Hot enough to cause third-degree burns.
I drop the attachment. It falls clattering into the bathtub, affecting the water pressure, which suddenly changes from feeble-cum-nothing to Niagara Falls-type gushing and takes on a life of its own, spinning round and spraying scalding water everywhere.
‘Argh!’
Trying to get out of the way, I now lose my balance and bash my shin against the tub.
‘Frigging hell,’ I yell, hopping around before promptly slipping on the pink plastic and sort of bellyflopping out of the bathtub and onto the pink shagpile bathmat.
For a moment I lie prostate, cheek wedged up against the bathmat, limbs outstretched, feeling like one of those scene-of-the-crime chalk figures.
I close my eyes. I’m tempted to lie here and go back to sleep, but I can’t.
I’m supposed to be on vacation. A soapsud drips down the side of my nose and I shiver.
And I’m not going to let a little thing like a hangover spoil that, now, am I?
A few minutes later I’m finally ready. I’ve managed to rinse my hair in the sink with a cup, but decided to pass on my fuzzy legs.
After all, it’s the dead of winter – who’s going to see them?
And anyway, I need the extra layer to keep me warm.
I shiver, walking into the dining room, which is distinctly chilly.
That’s another thing I’m learning about English people. They’re so hardy! In New York when the temperature dips below zero we turn to our central heating, but here they just put on another sweater.
I’m wearing three already.
‘Well, good morning,’ roars Rose through a mouthful of toast.
I’ve noticed that Rose doesn’t really mix with the other ladies on the tour and this morning is no exception.
She’s sitting alone at an empty table wearing a sparkly black turtle-neck and more diamonds than Elizabeth Taylor.
By the looks of the screwed-up napkins, toast crumbs and empty teacups, most people have already eaten breakfast.
Yet it’s not even nine thirty, I realise, glancing at my watch.
Will someone tell me why that is? Why do old people love getting up early?
They’re retired. They can sleep till noon.
Why, when the rest of us would do anything for that extra five minutes in bed, are they getting up at the crack of dawn when they don’t have to?
Baffled by one of life’s great mysteries, I pull out a chair.
‘Sleep well?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I reply. ‘Apart from a bit of a hangover—’
‘Well, lucky you. I didn’t,’ she interrupts, pouring another cup of tea and adding three heaped teaspoons of sugar. ‘My room was far too hot, and the mattress was horribly lumpy. I didn’t sleep a wink all night.’
‘Oh, dear,’ I sympathise, deciding against mentioning that I woke up at 4 a.m. with jet lag and could hear her snoring through the wall. ‘Poor you.’
‘Poor me indeed,’ grumbles Rose, clanking the spoon against the sides of the cup as she stirs.
‘However, it seems others were enjoying themselves.’ Leaning closer, she suddenly fixes me with a heavily mascaraed eye.
‘A little birdie told me you and our journalist friend were embroiled in a little tête-à-tête last night at the local drinking establishment.’
My cheeks tinge with colour. ‘I wouldn’t call it that. We just bumped into each other in the local pub,’ I protest hurriedly, wondering why I feel the need to explain when nothing happened. ‘We played pool.’
Rose raises a painted eyebrow. ‘Quite,’ she says, clicking her tongue.
Looping her finger through her teacup, she leans back against her chair and sips her tea.
It’s more than obvious she doesn’t believe me, and I’m about to protest further when a teenaged waitress appears in full frilly-aproned garb.
‘Would madam care to order breakfast?’ she asks, hovering awkwardly at the head of the table, her eyes darting around like a frightened bird.
My stomach is still swilling round like a washing machine set to cycle ‘nauseous’ and I really don’t feel like eating anything. But I know I have to. Even if just because I can’t take two aspirin on an empty stomach.
Quickly I scan the menu. Usually breakfast for me consists of snatching a low-bran muffin from the Italian bakery next to the bookstore, but this is all cooked. ‘Um, what would you recommend?’ I ask, feeling a bit fazed.
The waitress stares at me fearfully. ‘We do a full English breakfast,’ she suggests meekly.
I have no idea what this involves, but I’m keen to embrace local traditions. ‘Sounds great.’ I smile, closing my menu.
The waitress’s face flushes with relief and she makes a little scribble on her pad. ‘And how would you like your eggs, madam?’
‘Over easy,’ I reply automatically. That’s how I always have my eggs.
She looks at me with a baffled expression.
‘Sunny side up?’ I suggest instead, looking at her face for some kind of recognition and, seeing nothing, feeling like a bit of an idiot. God, I must look like a right tourist.
‘Um . . . scrambled?’ I ask uncertainly.
Suddenly she breaks into a smile and I feel a beat of relief.
‘And could I have—’ I’m about to say egg whites, but decide against it. I don’t want to look like one of those fussy Americans who ask for everything to be non-fat and on the side, I think, remembering Spike’s comment last night. ‘Just a non-fat latte,’ I say instead.
Oh, shit. I just did, didn’t I?
‘I mean . . . um . . . Tea is just fine,’ I say, gesturing to the teapot in the middle of the table. ‘When in Rome . . .’ I laugh breezily, but the waitress merely gives me a puzzled look and scuttles away.
‘Nothing better than a nice cup of tea,’ approves Rose, taking a rather loud slurp as if to prove it. ‘Although of course the tea they serve here is ghastly.’
‘Oh, really?’ I nod, ignoring my hangover, which is screaming out for a coffee. Like I said, I’m keen to try all these English traditions, and this is one of them.
Reaching for the teapot, I squeeze my fingers through the fine bone-china handle.
I hold it gingerly, reminded of the time I held my cousin Lisa’s newborn baby: at arm’s length, away from my chest, terrified I was going to drop and break it.
It’s surprisingly heavy – the teapot, not the baby – and my wrist wobbles.
Saying that, I’ve also got the shakes from alcohol poisoning, which isn’t exactly helping matters.
‘So?’
‘Mmm, delicious.’ I smile, taking a sip of weak, milky tea. ‘Very refreshing.’
God, I’d kill for a Starbucks.
Rose purses her lips. ‘I’m not referring to the tea,’ she chastises. ‘I’m referring to your . . .’ she hesitates, choosing her words carefully ‘. . . encounter.’
Aww, bless, how chaste. Underneath the booming voice and guise of heavy eyeliner, Rose really is still just a sweet little old lady, I think affectionately. ‘Nothing happened. It was entirely innocent,’ I say reassuringly.
‘I’m sure it was, my dear.’ She nods. ‘But let me tell you, men are never innocent in their thoughts.’
I stifle a smile. No doubt she’s now going to warn me about the dangers of men and how I have to protect my honour. How cute.
‘I was young once, you know.’
I nod kindly and settle back in my chair. What joy. Rose is going to tell me tales of courtship and romance. Of being wooed by handwritten love letters and being recited poetry to under a spreading oak tree . . .
Scenes from novels flash through my mind and I feel a wistful pang. Oh, to be young and single in those days. Things were so very different.
‘Long before I became a famous actress in the theatre, I met Larry, my first husband . . .’
I feel a blip of surprise. Her first husband? How many husbands has Rose had? I wonder.
‘. . . He was a US serviceman based here during the war . . .’
Ah, you see. That explains it. He probably died in action and she was left heartbroken for years. No doubt she only married again later in life for companionship, but she never forgot her first love, their tender moments shared, their slow, sweet courtship.