Tales From a Hen Weekend by Olivia Ryan Page B

my heart was in my mouth, and as we lurched over the top and sped full-pelt down the other side, dipped at the bottom and shot back up again, I could feel my chop suey and sweet and sour pork balls shooting back up too.
    I seemed to be the only one who felt sick afterwards. It was getting late so we walked back to the station anyway. The others were teasing me.
    ‘You’ve gone white!’
    ‘No, green! You’ve gone green! Your face matches your cardigan!’
    I couldn’t talk. I was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not throwing up on the pavement.
    ‘Will you be all right on the train?’ Shirley asked me anxiously as we waited on the platform.
    I nodded yes, but moving my head made everything spin. I held onto her arm and allowed myself to be helped up into the carriage of the last train back to Romford.
    I managed to hold on till we were almost at Brentwood – only a few stops from home – and then I suddenly knew I was going to be sick.
    ‘Get the window open!’ yelled Linda. ‘Get her some fresh air!’
    ‘No!’ I mumbled, my hand over my mouth, trying to stop myself from vomiting. ‘No! Got to get off! Going to be s….’
    Fortunately for me, and for everyone else in the carriage, the train pulled into the station just at that moment. I wrenched the door open, stumbled out, ran to the fence at the back of the platform and threw up over the bushes. Hanging onto the fence, panting and trying to wipe my mouth with my hankie, I heard Shirley behind me saying:
    ‘Well, I expect you’ll feel better now. But I think we’ll have to get a taxi home.’
    I looked round just in time to see the train disappearing down the track. The last train. Apparently, at Shirley’s insistence, Linda and Angela had stayed on the train but she’d jumped off to look after me.
    ‘No point all four of us being stranded,’ she said briskly.
    ‘Thank you,’ I said, feebly. ‘Sorry. You should have gone on, too.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you on your own. Come on, let’s get outside and see what a taxi will cost.’
    ‘But I haven’t got any money left!’
    We didn’t have credit or debit cards in those days. No cash machines on every corner. You either had cash, and spent it, or you didn’t, and you had to go without.
    ‘Nor have I. I’ll have to wake Graham up when we get back, and get him to pay the taxi. If he’s got enough money at home.’
    ‘Or I could phone my dad to come and pick us up,’ I said doubtfully, knowing how annoyed he’d be to be woken up so late, the night before the wedding that he and Mum had worked so hard to organise.
    ‘No, that wouldn’t be fair. He’d be cross.’
    We joined the queue for taxis outside the station.
    ‘It’s going to be a long wait,’ I said gloomily. ‘And it’s going to be very expensive, and it’s all my fault.’ I stopped, suddenly laughing out loud. ‘Hang on a minute! How bloody stupid of me! We don’t need to get a taxi, or a lift back to Romford tonight! We can wait till the morning!’
    ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about, Marge? Are you still drunk? What, you want to sleep on the pavement here till the morning? You want to miss your wedding or something?’
    ‘No! For God’s sake! It’s obvious, isn’t it! We can stay at Terry’s place!’
    Terry rented a room in a house with two other blokes, only a five-minute walk from Brentwood station. It was his last night there, of course – we were moving into our own place straight after the wedding. It was easier, then, you see – getting a mortgage – and we’d just managed to get in before the huge leap in house prices that happened about that time.
    ‘Don’t be silly, we can’t go there!’ said Shirley, grabbing my arm to pull me back into the queue. ‘You mustn’t see him tonight! It’s bad luck!’
    ‘Oh, that’s rubbish! I’m not superstitious! Come on, he won’t mind. We can get the first train in the