challenge you over everything.
“It’s not something I’m conscious of doing, Kate, to be honest. I suppose you being here reminds me of the fun we used to have.” Our glasses clink together as we down the
remainder of their contents in a race to finish first.
“Fun like that,” Kate giggles. “Except in our day it was cider and black.”
“Do you believe in fate?” I quiz her curiously.
“Yeah. About as much as you do!” She rolls her eyes sarcastically. “What’s got into you, Tina? You’re a bit of a weirdo tonight. You and I have never believed in
fate and all that stuff. We’ve always said it’s about being in the right place at the right time. That and bloody hard grafting.”
“I know, Kate, but for some reason I can’t help wondering if life is already mapped out for us from the day we’re born.” I look at her confused expression.
“Don’t you think?”
Kate lunges forward, grabs a full wine bottle from the bedside unit and unscrews the cap. “I’ll tell you what I think.” She fills my already half-full glass right to the brim.
“You’re talking shite and you’re not even pissed. Knock that back and at least you’ll have an excuse!”
She jumps off the bed and slides open the mirrored wardrobe doors. “Let’s have a fashion show like we used to!” she says excitedly while I groan with reluctance.
My body feels like it’s glued to the bed and I feel bloated from eating hangover junk all day. “You do it and I’ll be the comp,” I suggest, rolling over into the warmth
left behind by Kate’s body.
Exhausted from so much thinking and ill from alcohol poisoning, my eyes close as I await her first little number.
My throat is dry and barren and I clumsily feel about in the dark for water, desperate to replenish some much-needed fluids. Kate is flat out next to me in her pyjamas, snoring
gently. I knock back the entire pint glass which I can only assume Kate kindly put there given I don’t even remember falling asleep.
My mind races with thoughts of the past few weeks as the alcohol stimulants keep me from sleeping. The psychic, the contract, Simon, Brian, the wedding . . . How much can a girl cope with? I
make a note to prioritise and conclude that work and my sister’s wedding have to be at the top. Much as a screaming multiple orgasm from Brian would be at the top of my aspirational list,
I’ve made so much of an idiot of myself that it’s redemption time. Maybe Kate is right? Maybe there is no such thing as fate. But how can we really be sure? Perhaps instead of a
guardian angel each one of us is born with a cartographer? Their role being to compile a map for our lives and navigate invisibly, allowing us to go off course from time to time but sitting ready
and waiting to clearly signpost the correct turning when we’re about to venture into unknown territory, or take the wrong route?
Kate is right about one thing. I do talk some shite. Go back to sleep, Tina.
Still pyjama-clad, Kate and I slump on the sofa watching mindless Sunday TV with mugs of freshly brewed coffee.
“Let me know when you’re hungry and I’ll make us breakfast,” I slur, too tired to talk properly let alone make breakfast. And anyway, just in case I haven’t
completely blown it with Brian, excuse the pun, I need to feel and look as svelte as possible, without contracting bulimia or visiting the gym, and the loss of a few pounds certainly won’t do
me any harm.
While I jest about bulimia, during the start of my career and not long after graduating from university, I was signed to a local agency for both acting and modelling jobs. The pressure to remain
stick-thin was overwhelming. To say that I have witnessed the sound of countless retching from toilet cubicles is absolutely no exaggeration. Hence the reason I tried it myself and, quite
worryingly, found it easy. When Gemma, the director of City Models, suggested I lose a few pounds, I starved myself for a week, surviving on
“It’s not something I’m conscious of doing, Kate, to be honest. I suppose you being here reminds me of the fun we used to have.” Our glasses clink together as we down the
remainder of their contents in a race to finish first.
“Fun like that,” Kate giggles. “Except in our day it was cider and black.”
“Do you believe in fate?” I quiz her curiously.
“Yeah. About as much as you do!” She rolls her eyes sarcastically. “What’s got into you, Tina? You’re a bit of a weirdo tonight. You and I have never believed in
fate and all that stuff. We’ve always said it’s about being in the right place at the right time. That and bloody hard grafting.”
“I know, Kate, but for some reason I can’t help wondering if life is already mapped out for us from the day we’re born.” I look at her confused expression.
“Don’t you think?”
Kate lunges forward, grabs a full wine bottle from the bedside unit and unscrews the cap. “I’ll tell you what I think.” She fills my already half-full glass right to the brim.
“You’re talking shite and you’re not even pissed. Knock that back and at least you’ll have an excuse!”
She jumps off the bed and slides open the mirrored wardrobe doors. “Let’s have a fashion show like we used to!” she says excitedly while I groan with reluctance.
My body feels like it’s glued to the bed and I feel bloated from eating hangover junk all day. “You do it and I’ll be the comp,” I suggest, rolling over into the warmth
left behind by Kate’s body.
Exhausted from so much thinking and ill from alcohol poisoning, my eyes close as I await her first little number.
My throat is dry and barren and I clumsily feel about in the dark for water, desperate to replenish some much-needed fluids. Kate is flat out next to me in her pyjamas, snoring
gently. I knock back the entire pint glass which I can only assume Kate kindly put there given I don’t even remember falling asleep.
My mind races with thoughts of the past few weeks as the alcohol stimulants keep me from sleeping. The psychic, the contract, Simon, Brian, the wedding . . . How much can a girl cope with? I
make a note to prioritise and conclude that work and my sister’s wedding have to be at the top. Much as a screaming multiple orgasm from Brian would be at the top of my aspirational list,
I’ve made so much of an idiot of myself that it’s redemption time. Maybe Kate is right? Maybe there is no such thing as fate. But how can we really be sure? Perhaps instead of a
guardian angel each one of us is born with a cartographer? Their role being to compile a map for our lives and navigate invisibly, allowing us to go off course from time to time but sitting ready
and waiting to clearly signpost the correct turning when we’re about to venture into unknown territory, or take the wrong route?
Kate is right about one thing. I do talk some shite. Go back to sleep, Tina.
Still pyjama-clad, Kate and I slump on the sofa watching mindless Sunday TV with mugs of freshly brewed coffee.
“Let me know when you’re hungry and I’ll make us breakfast,” I slur, too tired to talk properly let alone make breakfast. And anyway, just in case I haven’t
completely blown it with Brian, excuse the pun, I need to feel and look as svelte as possible, without contracting bulimia or visiting the gym, and the loss of a few pounds certainly won’t do
me any harm.
While I jest about bulimia, during the start of my career and not long after graduating from university, I was signed to a local agency for both acting and modelling jobs. The pressure to remain
stick-thin was overwhelming. To say that I have witnessed the sound of countless retching from toilet cubicles is absolutely no exaggeration. Hence the reason I tried it myself and, quite
worryingly, found it easy. When Gemma, the director of City Models, suggested I lose a few pounds, I starved myself for a week, surviving on
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