Begin Again | on hold

fifteen

The millionth time Sunny tells herself she really needs to get out of Delilah's bed, she listens at last because her bladder has joined the argument and it seems to be shouting the loudest. As excruciating as the pain behind her temples is, she can't pee in her best friend's bed so with her eyes squinted against the bright light of a dingy morning, she feels her way across the flat to the too-white bathroom, the tiles cleaned so thoroughly that they sparkle and her head throbs harder. Once she's found the loo, she rests her head against the cold wall and closes her eyes, focusing on breathing deep and slow so she doesn't throw up.

Going back to the bedroom is too far so once she has washed her hands and avoided her reflection in the mirror, staring instead at Delilah's vast array of hair products and detangling combs, Sunny collapses on the sofa in half of last night's outfit. Her bra, somehow, has vanished but her top is in place; her shorts are gone but she's still wearing the soft boxers that hug her hips and thighs.

The cracked leather is cool against her clammy body, too hot after a night in Delilah's luxurious bed. The bed itself wasn't hot, but Sunny seems to have churned every unit of alcohol into a unit of pure heat, so she is now sticky and pink and trying not to vomit. For ten whole minutes, she lies prone on the sofa, convincing herself that she isn't going to be sick until reality kicks in, and she has to acquiesce with the reassurance that she'll probably feel a lot better once she has given in to the tell-tale trickle of hot saliva filling her mouth.

She gets to the loo just in time to heave up her guts until her back is screaming in agony and her lungs are on fire, and when she slumps against the wonderfully cool tiles, she thinks this would make a pretty good place to sleep. It's cold and clean and if she needs to throw up again, the loo is right there. So she gives in to her body's cries and she curls up on the floor, her cheek pressed against a tile that, knowing Delilah, has been polished at some point in the last couple of days.

It could've been minutes or days by the time she hears the front door open and close and Delilah wafts into the flat carrying the smell of fresh croissants and hot coffee from the bakery at the bottom of the hill. When Sunny opens her eyes, she realises she doesn't feel as queasy as before and that maybe a buttery croissant is just what the doctor ordered. With great caution, she gets to her feet, moving as slowly as possible so as not to shock her headache out of its temporary hibernation, and slinks out of the bathroom like a guilty cat.

"Morning!" Delilah is far too alert, too alive, too put together. Shimmering highlighter makes her brown cheeks sparkle, her lips painted espresso brown to match her eyes. She gestures to the kitchen table with a sweep of her hand. "A latte with extra cinnamon; croissants and pain au chocolat; paracetamol for now and ibuprofen for once you've eaten, and water." A proud smile lights up her face, the glittery highlighter catching the sun. "I figured you'd need it."

"You're a goddess. I do not deserve you. This mortal world hasn't earnt you, Delilah," Sunny says with a groan as she drops onto a chair and pulls over a plate with a croissant that Delilah has already split open and slathered in proper salty butter from a farm down the road. It's further than the shop and more expensive, but there's nothing quite like proper butter and fresh milk.

"How's your head?"

"I threw up so hard my headache has a headache of its own." She eats with her eyes closed, tearing the croissant into bite-sized pieces.

"Uh oh. Do I need to get my mop out or were you tidy?" Delilah sips her mocha and cuts the end off a pain au chocolat.

"I was a good tidy girl." She has to stop eating for a moment to breathe. "I have never in my life drunk so much, oh my fuck. What was I thinking?"

"I'm not sure, but your head's in a funny place at the moment. It's understandable."

"Ugh, and I have fucking work today." Another groan, this one more existential. "Thank fuck I haven't changed jobs in the last year because I do not know how the fuck to do anything but make coffee, and I can barely do that."