this email would be as long as War and Peace . Because the morning after Cody's party I woke up in my own bed in my own flat and even before I discovered I was inside the duvet cover, I was full of foreboding. I had a strange unarranged feeling about me and further investigation revealed that I was fully dressed but my bra was open under my dress and my knickers were pulled down to the top of my thighs, but my tights were still fully on. As soon as I was aware of it, it became so uncomfortable I couldn't bear it.
While I was wriggling around trying to fix myself I — as you do — glanced over the side of the bed and there, thrown on the floor like a police outline of a corpse, was a man. Dark hair, wearing a suit. I had no idea who he was. None. He opened one eye and squinted up at me and said, 'Morning.'
'Morning,' I replied.
He opened his second eye and then I thought I knew him. I recognized the face, I was pretty sure of it.
'Owen,' he supplied. 'You met me last night in Hamman.'
Hamman was a hot new bar — I had no idea I'd been there.
'Why are you lying on the floor?' I asked.
'Because you pushed me out.'
Why?'
'I've no idea.'
'Aren't you cold?'
'Freezing.'
'You look very young.'
'Twenty-eight'
'I'm more than that.' Looking around the room, I said, 'What's my coal scuttle doing in here?'
'You brought it in to show me. You told a lot of people about it last night, you seemed very proud of it. Quite right too,' he added. 'It's a beauty.'
He was taking the piss and I wanted him to go away and for me to go back to sleep and find I'd imagined it all.
'You're in the horrors,' he said, which was pretty observant. 'I'll make you a cup of tea and then I'll be off.'
I cried, 'No tea!'
'Coffee?'
'OK.'
And the next thing I knew was I'd jerked awake, my mouth was lined with sheepskin, and I was wondering if I'd dreamt it all. But there was the cup of coffee beside me - stone cold - I'd lapsed back into my coma before managing to drink it. And the coal scuttle was still on top of my dressing table and all kinds of lovely things — nail varnishes, toner, my Origins powder - were spilled and scattered around the floor looking to my morning-after-the-night-before eyes like rag-doll victims of a car crash.
It was horrific and when I got out of bed my legs nearly gave way on my first attempt to stand. In the front room the cushions had been knocked off the couch, like someone (me and Owen?) had had a wrestling match on it. Sticky red rings patterned my lovely wooden floor, courtesy of an open bottle of red wine and there was a horrible blood-like stain on my eighty per cent wool silver-grey rug. From the broken glass around the stain it looked like we'd landed on a wine glass during the wrestling bout.
Then I was really in the horrors when I thought the wooden floor had come out in strange silver bubbles but a closer look showed that it was just loads of CDs scattered around the room and catching the sun. Out in the hall, an extremely angry note had been shoved under the door: Gary and Gaye upstairs, complaining about the noise. They were RAGING and I wished I was dead. I would have to apologize and I didn't think I'd ever be able to speak again.
Obviously this sort of scene was once par for the course every Saturday and Sunday morning, but it was literally years — well, a year, anyway - since I'd gone this mad.
Mind you, something must have changed since the last time I brought home a man I couldn't even remember meeting, because the smart-arse youth had left me a note. I thought those sort of blokes normally scarpered at 4 a.m. with their underpants in the pockets, never to be seen again. The note — scribbled with my eyeliner on a colonic irrigation flyer (I'd been sent millions of them) — said:
Coal Scuttle Angel I find you strangely alluring. Lets do it again sometime. I'll call you, just as soon as my bruises have healed. Owen
PS live long and prosper.
'I'll call you.
With those words something
While I was wriggling around trying to fix myself I — as you do — glanced over the side of the bed and there, thrown on the floor like a police outline of a corpse, was a man. Dark hair, wearing a suit. I had no idea who he was. None. He opened one eye and squinted up at me and said, 'Morning.'
'Morning,' I replied.
He opened his second eye and then I thought I knew him. I recognized the face, I was pretty sure of it.
'Owen,' he supplied. 'You met me last night in Hamman.'
Hamman was a hot new bar — I had no idea I'd been there.
'Why are you lying on the floor?' I asked.
'Because you pushed me out.'
Why?'
'I've no idea.'
'Aren't you cold?'
'Freezing.'
'You look very young.'
'Twenty-eight'
'I'm more than that.' Looking around the room, I said, 'What's my coal scuttle doing in here?'
'You brought it in to show me. You told a lot of people about it last night, you seemed very proud of it. Quite right too,' he added. 'It's a beauty.'
He was taking the piss and I wanted him to go away and for me to go back to sleep and find I'd imagined it all.
'You're in the horrors,' he said, which was pretty observant. 'I'll make you a cup of tea and then I'll be off.'
I cried, 'No tea!'
'Coffee?'
'OK.'
And the next thing I knew was I'd jerked awake, my mouth was lined with sheepskin, and I was wondering if I'd dreamt it all. But there was the cup of coffee beside me - stone cold - I'd lapsed back into my coma before managing to drink it. And the coal scuttle was still on top of my dressing table and all kinds of lovely things — nail varnishes, toner, my Origins powder - were spilled and scattered around the floor looking to my morning-after-the-night-before eyes like rag-doll victims of a car crash.
It was horrific and when I got out of bed my legs nearly gave way on my first attempt to stand. In the front room the cushions had been knocked off the couch, like someone (me and Owen?) had had a wrestling match on it. Sticky red rings patterned my lovely wooden floor, courtesy of an open bottle of red wine and there was a horrible blood-like stain on my eighty per cent wool silver-grey rug. From the broken glass around the stain it looked like we'd landed on a wine glass during the wrestling bout.
Then I was really in the horrors when I thought the wooden floor had come out in strange silver bubbles but a closer look showed that it was just loads of CDs scattered around the room and catching the sun. Out in the hall, an extremely angry note had been shoved under the door: Gary and Gaye upstairs, complaining about the noise. They were RAGING and I wished I was dead. I would have to apologize and I didn't think I'd ever be able to speak again.
Obviously this sort of scene was once par for the course every Saturday and Sunday morning, but it was literally years — well, a year, anyway - since I'd gone this mad.
Mind you, something must have changed since the last time I brought home a man I couldn't even remember meeting, because the smart-arse youth had left me a note. I thought those sort of blokes normally scarpered at 4 a.m. with their underpants in the pockets, never to be seen again. The note — scribbled with my eyeliner on a colonic irrigation flyer (I'd been sent millions of them) — said:
Coal Scuttle Angel I find you strangely alluring. Lets do it again sometime. I'll call you, just as soon as my bruises have healed. Owen
PS live long and prosper.
'I'll call you.
With those words something
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