said Mark.
‘I can’t move either!’
‘Mummy!’ a child’s voice called in the corridor. ‘Mummy! Mummm-eeeeeee!’ Compelled by motherly instinct, Ronnie had no choice but to answer.
Half sobbing, she staggered to the door and opened it to find Jack, looking terribly grave.
‘Mummy, Sophie won’t stop being sick,’ he said.
Though she herself was drenched in cold sweat and could barely stand, Ronnie had to follow Jack into the children’s bedroom next door. Sophie was sitting on the very end of the double bed she’d been sharing with her brother, crying like it was the end of the world. She hadn’t even managed to get as far as the bathroom. What little she had eaten of her all-inclusive dinner was splattered across the green tiled floor.
‘Mum,’ she whispered, ‘I think I’m dying.’
‘You’re not dying,’ Ronnie promised her, as she tried not to heave at the sight of so much more sick.
‘It’s like 28 Days Later ,’ said Mark, when he felt well enough to stand and join his wife in surveying the carnage in the children’s room.
‘We must have eaten something funny,’ Sophie suggested when she heard she wasn’t the only one evacuating dinner.
‘Too right. I’m going to sue this bloody hotel,’ was Ronnie’s response. ‘I bet they’ve been reheating that buffet all week.’ Then she covered her mouth and made a dash for the bathroom again.
Jack perched on the wide windowsill, with his legs well clear of his sister’s vomit. He had his arms wrapped tightly round himself to make up for the fact that everyone else was too covered in puke to give him the hug he really needed.
‘I’m frightened,’ he said to his father. ‘What’s wrong with you and Mummy?’
‘It’s just a little tummy upset,’ said Mark with a queasy smile. ‘We’re all going to be perfectly fine.’
Jack could be forgiven for thinking it didn’t look that way. In the corner by the door, Sophie had rolled herself into a ball round the wastepaper basket, which was unfortunately made of raffia and, as such, was far from being the ideal barf receptacle.
‘For heaven’s sake, use this carrier bag,’ Mark suggested, handing her the Hollister carrier that had formed part of Sophie’s luggage.
‘No way,’ said Sophie. That bag was a totem for her. It was proof that she owned something cool, even if it had been bought in the sale. She wasn’t going to waste it. She wasn’t that ill.
‘But–’ Just as Mark was about to point out the obvious folly of a barf bucket with great big holes in it, Sophie discovered its limitations for herself, getting sick all over her favourite pyjamas. Seeing it happen, Jack jumped down from the windowsill and started to have a proper freak-out, skipping from one foot to the other as though the whole room was swimming in vomit.
‘For God’s sake, Mark, take him to Mum’s room,’ Ronnie called from her place on the bathroom floor. The echo chamber of the toilet bowl made her voice sound subterranean.
Mark, who had managed to stay remarkably clean, picked Jack up and carried him down the corridor. Alas, the scene in Dave and Jacqui’s room was not an awful lot better. Dave was curled up on the bed in the foetal position. Jacqui was next door, trying desperately hard to make sure that Bill stayed in his en-suite bathroom until the danger had passed. All three of them were also afflicted.
‘We must all have food poisoning,’ Jacqui groaned. ‘Did you have the prawn cocktail, Mark? I bet it was the prawns.’
‘I didn’t have the prawns,’ said Jack. That seemed to confirm it. He was the only one who wasn’t ill.
‘Ronnie says can you take him?’ Mark asked.
He held Jack out in Jacqui’s direction.
‘Do I look like I can take him? You’ll have to take him down to Chelsea,’ Jacqui said. ‘She might still be OK. She won’t have touched the prawn cocktail. She hardly ate a thing.’
‘God, please let her be all right,’ said Mark, who felt another
‘I can’t move either!’
‘Mummy!’ a child’s voice called in the corridor. ‘Mummy! Mummm-eeeeeee!’ Compelled by motherly instinct, Ronnie had no choice but to answer.
Half sobbing, she staggered to the door and opened it to find Jack, looking terribly grave.
‘Mummy, Sophie won’t stop being sick,’ he said.
Though she herself was drenched in cold sweat and could barely stand, Ronnie had to follow Jack into the children’s bedroom next door. Sophie was sitting on the very end of the double bed she’d been sharing with her brother, crying like it was the end of the world. She hadn’t even managed to get as far as the bathroom. What little she had eaten of her all-inclusive dinner was splattered across the green tiled floor.
‘Mum,’ she whispered, ‘I think I’m dying.’
‘You’re not dying,’ Ronnie promised her, as she tried not to heave at the sight of so much more sick.
‘It’s like 28 Days Later ,’ said Mark, when he felt well enough to stand and join his wife in surveying the carnage in the children’s room.
‘We must have eaten something funny,’ Sophie suggested when she heard she wasn’t the only one evacuating dinner.
‘Too right. I’m going to sue this bloody hotel,’ was Ronnie’s response. ‘I bet they’ve been reheating that buffet all week.’ Then she covered her mouth and made a dash for the bathroom again.
Jack perched on the wide windowsill, with his legs well clear of his sister’s vomit. He had his arms wrapped tightly round himself to make up for the fact that everyone else was too covered in puke to give him the hug he really needed.
‘I’m frightened,’ he said to his father. ‘What’s wrong with you and Mummy?’
‘It’s just a little tummy upset,’ said Mark with a queasy smile. ‘We’re all going to be perfectly fine.’
Jack could be forgiven for thinking it didn’t look that way. In the corner by the door, Sophie had rolled herself into a ball round the wastepaper basket, which was unfortunately made of raffia and, as such, was far from being the ideal barf receptacle.
‘For heaven’s sake, use this carrier bag,’ Mark suggested, handing her the Hollister carrier that had formed part of Sophie’s luggage.
‘No way,’ said Sophie. That bag was a totem for her. It was proof that she owned something cool, even if it had been bought in the sale. She wasn’t going to waste it. She wasn’t that ill.
‘But–’ Just as Mark was about to point out the obvious folly of a barf bucket with great big holes in it, Sophie discovered its limitations for herself, getting sick all over her favourite pyjamas. Seeing it happen, Jack jumped down from the windowsill and started to have a proper freak-out, skipping from one foot to the other as though the whole room was swimming in vomit.
‘For God’s sake, Mark, take him to Mum’s room,’ Ronnie called from her place on the bathroom floor. The echo chamber of the toilet bowl made her voice sound subterranean.
Mark, who had managed to stay remarkably clean, picked Jack up and carried him down the corridor. Alas, the scene in Dave and Jacqui’s room was not an awful lot better. Dave was curled up on the bed in the foetal position. Jacqui was next door, trying desperately hard to make sure that Bill stayed in his en-suite bathroom until the danger had passed. All three of them were also afflicted.
‘We must all have food poisoning,’ Jacqui groaned. ‘Did you have the prawn cocktail, Mark? I bet it was the prawns.’
‘I didn’t have the prawns,’ said Jack. That seemed to confirm it. He was the only one who wasn’t ill.
‘Ronnie says can you take him?’ Mark asked.
He held Jack out in Jacqui’s direction.
‘Do I look like I can take him? You’ll have to take him down to Chelsea,’ Jacqui said. ‘She might still be OK. She won’t have touched the prawn cocktail. She hardly ate a thing.’
‘God, please let her be all right,’ said Mark, who felt another
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