Not Quite Perfect

Rachel is talking to the waiter as Emma staggers up. ‘So those lovely men over there have kindly agreed to pay for our dinner. Thanks so much. Let’s go, Em.’

They make for the door.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re playing at?’ Chancer is on his feet now.

‘Run for it!’

Rachel grabs Emma’s hand and they sprint onto a bus that has just pulled into its stop.

‘You slags!’ shouts Chancer after them.

Rachel and Emma collapse onto the back seats and Rachel waves and blows kisses at their hapless pursuer, who is being ushered back into the restaurant by two burly Indian waiters, keen to obtain payment. The bus speeds off down the road leaving the city boys far behind them.

‘Ha!’ declares Rachel. ‘Another classic Darcy girl adventure! Em, are you OK? You look a bit green.’

‘Actually, I feel a bit –’ and she promptly vomits into the takeaway bag.

‘Oh, very nice,’ says Rachel, ‘you really can’t handle your drink, can you?’

They have only travelled two stops. The bus driver comes out of his cab.

‘Right, you two. Off!’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’ll have to get off the bus.’

‘But she’s ill and we’re two lone females.’

‘Not my problem, love. She’s obviously had too much to drink. You’ll have to get off. You’ll stink out my bus.’

‘Oh charming, very gallant, chucking us out into the cold. Come on Vomiting Veronica. You can stay at mine and you owe me a takeaway.’

She leads a shivering Emma off the bus and they stagger all the way back to Rachel’s house. Rachel drapes her sister over the wall while she fumbles for her keys. She sees a light come on in Tom’s hallway and is half-pleased and half-mortified when he opens the door.

‘Ah, Mrs Summers, how was the pub? Are you drunk?’

‘As a skunk, Mr Davies, and this,’ she picks up her almost comatose sister and waves a floppy hand, ‘is my sister, Emma.’

‘A pleasure,’ Tom declares. ‘Need any help getting in?’

‘If you could help me get old Chunder-Cheeks into the lounge that would be great.’ Rachel opens the door and between them, they manhandle Emma onto the sofa. ‘Thank you. You’re a gent.’

‘No problemo. By the way, Rachel, I got the feeling Steve wasn’t too pleased to find me here tonight. I just hope I didn’t cause you any grief.’

‘Oh Tom, it’s not you. Steve just needs to get his priorities sorted and I need to talk to him like a grown-up, but we will, I promise. Now shoo, Doris at number thirty-two would love to see you skulking out of my house in the wee small hours, but I don’t want to get a reputation.’

‘Of course.’

Tom moves to pass her in the hall, turning to look at her as he does so. Rachel, slightly drunk and not wanting to appear unfriendly goes to peck him on the cheek but mistimes her attack and ends up planting the kiss on the right-side of his lip. To Rachel’s mind, your next action in this kind of situation is the borderline between fidelity and adultery. She is drunk, but decides to brush it off with an embarrassed giggle. Tom smiles and the moment passes without incident, but as she shuts the door behind him, she leans against it and lets out a sigh. What are you playing at Rachel, you fool? she thinks.

She tucks up Emma, leaving her a glass of water. She tiptoes upstairs to the half-lit darkness of the marital bedroom. She undresses quickly and wriggles into bed beside Steve’s steady breathing form.

‘Steve? Are you awake?’

There is no response, which Rachel takes as either no interest or genuine sleep. She lies awake for the next hour or so, her mind heavy with worry until alcohol and fatigue transport her to a restless sleep.

Chapter 7

Emma blinks at her screen unable to believe that she has caused herself this world of pain again. Her left eye is twitching with the effort of being open and her temple is throbbing with a dull echo, pounding the words ‘Too much beer! Too much beer!’ She squints at the over-bright screen and wonders if people would notice if she slipped on her sunglasses.

‘Having troubles there, missus?’

‘Ella, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to creep up on people like that?’

‘Sorry, my mother had a Stephen King obsession so, to be honest, scaring people was a family pastime. What was it last night?’

‘Beer. Too much. Don’t want to talk about it. All Rachel’s fault,’ stammers Emma, feeling bilious at the memory. ‘I think I puked on a bus.’

‘Euurgh, sounds like you might need one of David and Simon’s cure-all fry-ups.’

‘Please, Ella. Do you want to see the contents of my stomach?’

‘Hmm, not especially. Shall I leave you?’

‘If you don’t mind. Talking makes me nauseous. In fact, being upright makes me nauseous.’

‘Mmm, well I don’t think you’re going to like what’s coming down the corridor.’

‘Miranda?’

‘Worse. Joel.’

‘Oh crap. Have I got time to esc –’

‘Ah, Emma, have you got a minute?’ says Joel, striding into their midst.

‘Erm, I’m actually in the middle of something quite important.’

‘But you haven’t logged on yet?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your screen? You haven’t logged onto your computer yet.’

Emma turns to her desk. ‘I know that. I’m an editor. I have manuscripts to work on,’ she says fumbling for the nearest pile of papers.

Joel is unimpressed. ‘Look, Emma, maybe you have time to waste but I don’t. I need an urgent discussion with you about this Richard Bennett book. Can we go somewhere private?’ He glances over at Ella, who is in the middle of a ‘loser’ gesture behind his back and has to wave her arms around as if batting a fly.