“Oh! Oliver. Um . . . Let me get dressed and I can—”
“Don’t worry about it, mate. Come on. Let’s go to your room. I have a quick question for you. You work in the records office, yeah?”
Lorna remembered this day as the first—and, she pledged, the last—she ever experienced a hangover. Her head pounded, her mouth was dry, and her stomach couldn’t decide if it wanted to intake food or expel it. Little comfort could be taken from the knowledge that she hadn’t done or said anything ridiculous, but she was an idiot for not sticking to her own golden rules: three drinks max, a glass of water before bed, no befriending strangers at Oliver’s parties. But the stress of her courses, particularly her incompetent media prof who detested anyone who detested Ayn Rand, had made her let her guard down.
She stumbled down into the front room, kicked over a stack of empty Carling cans, and woke a red-eyed stranger crashing on the sofa. The boy muttered something about his mum as Lorna got him to his feet and shoved him out the door. As she started collecting the cans, she remembered the girl she’d been flirting with. God, had she been flirting? She’d put a hand on the girl’s knee and leaned into her side. The girl hadn’t even been that pretty and all she talked about was Oasis. Lorna dumped the cans in the metal bin out back where they clattered like a broken wind chime. She wanted to pour a big glass of juice and sneak back up to her room to work on one of the three papers she had due on Thursday, but by the time she filled her cup, she only had strength enough to sit.
A muffled argument sounded upstairs, but before she could discern anything more, Maeve shuffled into the kitchen, an envelope in her hands. She looked surprised to see Lorna but recovered quickly.
“Some night last night, was it?” Maeve asked.
Lorna took a sip of orange juice and grimaced. “I wished you would’ve been there. You would’ve stopped me from that fifth . . . what was it? Vodka and Coke?”
“Pepsi, looks like.” Maeve picked up an empty two-liter bottle from the floor and set it on the counter. “But it does you good to act like a normal person every once in a while.”
“I am a normal person.” Lorna eyed the card. “How was your night then?”
Maeve hid her face. “Fine.”
“What time did you and Callum get in?”
“Later. God! It was nothing. Neither of us wanted to go to Oliver’s stupid party, so we went to a film and stopped for some drinks afterward and why are you looking at me like that?” The envelope crinkled in her hand.
“Looking at you like what?” Lorna hid her grin behind her glass.
“It wasn’t a date. Nothing happened. Stop making a deal about it.”
“I’m not making a deal about anything.”
“Yes, you are. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then why are you carrying around that card for everyone to see?”
Maeve glanced at her hands as if surprised to see the card there. She waffled a bit, looking out the kitchen doorway, then to the card, then to Lorna. With a sigh, she sat down at the table and handed over the card. “Why would he write a note? What kind of guy does that? It’s like last night was one of his stupid Happy Wednesday gifts for . . . for fuck’s sake.”
“Is this supposed to be a limerick?”
“It’s not funny!”
Lorna slid the card back across the table. “It is sweet, though.”
Maeve looked at the card as if it might leap off the table and bite her—or worse, kiss her.
“Maeve, do you really not like him?”
Before she could answer, Ellie appeared in the doorway, and Maeve swiped the card off the table.
Maeve needn’t have worried. Ellie hardly noticed the pair of them, let alone what was on the table. She slipped into the kitchen like a wisp of lace blowing in the wind, one hand pressed to her stomach as she searched the fridge. Though she stared into it, she could not see what she was looking for. Lorna’s voice jarred her.
“Hey, Ellie. Want some juice?”
There on the table was the juice carton, and sitting at the table were Lorna and Maeve, who looked at Ellie as if she had something on her face. Ellie wiped a hand across her cheek in case she did.
“Oh yes. Thank you.”
“Did you have a good time last night?”
Why couldn’t they leave her alone?
“Yes, I had a lovely time, thank you.” She chose a clean glass from the cupboard, poured half a glass of juice, and drank it without stopping. She hoped it would fill her up, but it disappeared somewhere into the vacant space that had taken possession of her body. She didn’t want them to speak, but nor could she bear the silence. Noises upstairs brought her peace—shouting and the slamming of a door.
“Some friend you are!”
Oliver’s voice made her hand tremble. She poured another glass to distract herself.
“All right, ladies?”
Ellie was proud of herself for not choking on her juice when Oliver appeared. Lorna and Maeve each muttered a greeting as he stepped around Ellie to grab a can of Pepsi. This was silly. She was being silly. All she had to do was ask. What harm was there in asking? She picked at a loose thread on her shirt and tried to keep her voice cheerful.
“Oliver, could I talk to you?”
He yawned and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Hm? What? Oh, sorry, got to pack. Mum’s expecting me home by five.” He cracked open the can and took a long drink. Ellie wanted to ask again, but Maeve’s voice overtook hers.
“Don’t you have one more exam tomorrow? You said I could help you study. Hamlet is so my thing, remember?” She twirled a single lock of frizzy hair.
“Maeve,” Lorna snapped and nodded to the front room.
“What?”
“I need you in the other room, please. Now.”
Chairs squeaked as Lorna and Maeve pushed themselves away from the table. Ellie watched them go, torn between wanting them to stay and never wanting to see any of them ever again, including Callum, who had appeared from nowhere to greet them outside the kitchen door, his camera around his neck. He glanced at Oliver, then hurried through the kitchen and out into the back garden without a word.
Ellie smoothed her shirt and tried again. “Don’t you have that exam?”
Oliver shrugged. “I’m skipping it.”
“Can you do that?” she asked.
“I’ll work out a deal. Just have to grease a few palms, and uni is smoother sailing than a hot dog in a whore’s vagina. You should try it.”
“Um . . . No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He finished the soda and left the empty can on the counter. Ellie, after some hesitation, followed him upstairs.
Clothes and empty beer cans were strewn all over his floor. Sticky tissues and empty soda bottles filled the wire bin in the corner. If the room had a distinct odor, she could no longer tell. In four short months, they’d become accustomed to it. Though the door was open, Ellie knocked. Oliver continued shoving clothes—dirty and clean—into a gym bag. She kept her toes at the carpet line, as close as she could stand without entering.
“I don’t want to bother you.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I was wondering if we could talk.”