“Chez?” I poke my head around the door. My bedroom is empty
“M’in here babe” she says quietly from her bedroom. Quickly I cross the landing and enter her room.
“Why in here?” I ask. Cheryl glances round and grins conspiratorially at me
“Cheryl” she says, pointing to herself “has got a secret alcohol stash” then she giggles.
Fifteen minutes later and we’re in her bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floorboards and surrounded by half empty bottles of vodka and shot glasses with lipstick stains around the rim. Cheryl pours more shots, passes one to me and takes one for herself.
“Down it on uh..three...one, two, THREEEEE!” I tip my head back, throwing the vodka down my throat and feeling it burn slightly in the back of my mouth. I run the back of my hand across my lips, laughing.
“Tomorrow we’re going to be wrecked!” I giggle
“It’s the weekend, we can fcuking stay in bed all fcuking day!” Something in a sober corner of my mind whirred at her slurred words.
The weekend.
John said he wanted me back at work by the weekend.
Suddenly I began to feel scared and a little sick. My skin began to burn. He’ll kill me. Jesus, he’ll kill me if I don’t turn up to work tomorrow. My head spins, but I take another shot, feeling the alcohol numb my mind and loosen my inhibitions. Tomorrow I can worry about the future, but tonight I want to have fun.
“Trutthhhh or dare!” Cheryl suddenly exclaims, pushing more shots towards me. If she was drunk before, right now she’s out of her mind. We clink shot glasses together before downing them. The liquid slops over the edge of the glass, creating a wobbly blue line down her arm, like a river on a map. She bends her head and licks it up, her little pink tongue moving along her skin. I watch her shamelessly, imagining her tongue on my skin.
“Truth or dare Kim?” she slurs, cocking her head to one side and looking at me slightly shakily.
“Truth” I reply quickly. I can imagine that Cheryl can think up some pretty evil dares when she wants to. Not that she’s looking at that innocent at the moment either. She narrows her eyes, then gently runs her tongue around her lips, so gently that it barely touched them. She downs another shot, then finally grins evilly.
“How many boys have you fcuked?” she says, resting her elbows on the floor, and her head in her hands.
“Cheryl!” I protest
“Yous have to answer, or there’ll...or there’ll be a forfiiittt”
“Chez, I don’t have like a little book and a rating system! I don’t know!”
“That’d be a good book. ‘People I’ve Screwed’ by Kimberley Walsh...I’d read it”
“You’re filthy!”
“And you...you love it...” she screws up her nose and looks at me as intently as you can when you’ve drunk about half your own bodyweight of raspberry flavour vodka.
“Whatever” she grins at me, and picks up a shot. Suddenly her face drops.
“Shiiiit! M’gonna sick!” she jumps up, wobbles, then runs to the bathroom. I follow, and she’s already on her hands and knees, resting her chin on the toilet seat, vomiting violently.
“Oh babe” I run to her, sweeping her long hair away from her face with one hand, and slipping my other hand around her waist, holding her as she retches. I’m close to her, I can smell the alcohol and sickly-sweet raspberries and her shampoo. “You’re alright” I whisper “you’ll feel better when it’s all out.”
