laugh and say what a bright, jolly fellow
he had been. How he had lived life to its fullest despite his flaws. Possibly (and this was an especially private thought)
someone would want to publish it.
While Barnaby knew he drank too much, he wasn’t particularly worried about being an alcoholic. He had read somewhere that
real alcoholics don’t get hangovers. He knew this to be true, since his own father had consumed at least twenty ounces of
Famous Grouse with soda every single day of his life and yet bounced out of bed each morning at five-thirty on the dot. Barnaby,
however, was reduced to a quivering, retching muck. The more he drank, the more he found himself perversely reassured each
morning when he woke up to find the old symptoms were still there (if anything, they were getting worse!): rolling thunderclaps
of nausea, jitters, a crushing head and a mysterious acrid peppermint smell everywhere he went. What he secretly feared most
was the morning he would wake up to find his hangover gone.
That morning, he conceded now while ordering his third pint, would probably not be tomorrow. It was not yet six, and he had
the whole night ahead of him. Soon people would start arriving at the club for cocktails, and then there would be dinner in
the dining room with more wine, and who knows what sort of nonsense after that. Part of him wished he could stay on in London
an extra day. And he would too. If only he didn’t miss the birds so much.
It had been Mish’s idea to take a taxi to dinner in the first place, so she couldn’t reasonably complain. Meredith had tried
to warn her about rush hour in London, but Mish hadn’t listened. Even worse, Mish had insisted on paying for it. Now they
were sitting in the back of a black cab stuck in a roundabout in central London wondering if they would have to camp for the
night. In the past twenty minutes, the cab had moved a total of one car length. The driver, a thin, bald, mean-looking youth
in a Manchester United jersey, alternately swore and leaned on the horn. Every few minutes he turned around and gave Meredith
and Mish a look of irritated surprise, as though he’d never seen a traffic jam before in his life. Meanwhile the meter ticked
away all the cash in Mish’s handbag, plus her per diem, and half of tomorrow’s pay as well. So far, the fare was roughly what
it cost to fly to Paris, and they were only halfway across town.
“I rather fancy a drive,” she’d said (pretentiously, Meredith thought) while they were still back on set packing up after
a long day’s shoot. “And besides,” she added, applying extra body-glow to her throat in front of the full-length mirror of
the wardrobe trailer, “there’s no way I’d be caught dead on the tube in this outfit.”
When it came to clothing, Mish had a penchant for the inappropriate. Her personal style was a blend of the most outrageous,
unseasonable and (all too often) unsightly trends of the moment. Today, for her first day of work on set, she had shown up
in an acid-wash denim miniskirt, suede stiletto boots and a large yellow sweater knitted out of feathers that looked as if
they’d been plucked from some unfortunate cousin of Big Bird.
Now, in addition to being hungover and under-slept, Mish was sinking into a terrible sulk. This was just two steps away from
a tantrum, Meredith knew, and it made her twitchy with apprehension. They sat in a grump, stomachs lurching as the car crept
forward another few inches and came to a halt, nearly rear-ending a girl on a Vespa in front of them.
“Wanka!” the driver hollered at the girl in the helmet, and then wagged his tongue in the rearview mirror.
Mish hissed softly into her feathers, and Meredith was afraid her friend might be about to chuck. The only thing that ever
made Meredith ill was the sight of other people throwing up.
“So what did you think of Kathleen?” Meredith hoped to distract Mish from any
he had been. How he had lived life to its fullest despite his flaws. Possibly (and this was an especially private thought)
someone would want to publish it.
While Barnaby knew he drank too much, he wasn’t particularly worried about being an alcoholic. He had read somewhere that
real alcoholics don’t get hangovers. He knew this to be true, since his own father had consumed at least twenty ounces of
Famous Grouse with soda every single day of his life and yet bounced out of bed each morning at five-thirty on the dot. Barnaby,
however, was reduced to a quivering, retching muck. The more he drank, the more he found himself perversely reassured each
morning when he woke up to find the old symptoms were still there (if anything, they were getting worse!): rolling thunderclaps
of nausea, jitters, a crushing head and a mysterious acrid peppermint smell everywhere he went. What he secretly feared most
was the morning he would wake up to find his hangover gone.
That morning, he conceded now while ordering his third pint, would probably not be tomorrow. It was not yet six, and he had
the whole night ahead of him. Soon people would start arriving at the club for cocktails, and then there would be dinner in
the dining room with more wine, and who knows what sort of nonsense after that. Part of him wished he could stay on in London
an extra day. And he would too. If only he didn’t miss the birds so much.
It had been Mish’s idea to take a taxi to dinner in the first place, so she couldn’t reasonably complain. Meredith had tried
to warn her about rush hour in London, but Mish hadn’t listened. Even worse, Mish had insisted on paying for it. Now they
were sitting in the back of a black cab stuck in a roundabout in central London wondering if they would have to camp for the
night. In the past twenty minutes, the cab had moved a total of one car length. The driver, a thin, bald, mean-looking youth
in a Manchester United jersey, alternately swore and leaned on the horn. Every few minutes he turned around and gave Meredith
and Mish a look of irritated surprise, as though he’d never seen a traffic jam before in his life. Meanwhile the meter ticked
away all the cash in Mish’s handbag, plus her per diem, and half of tomorrow’s pay as well. So far, the fare was roughly what
it cost to fly to Paris, and they were only halfway across town.
“I rather fancy a drive,” she’d said (pretentiously, Meredith thought) while they were still back on set packing up after
a long day’s shoot. “And besides,” she added, applying extra body-glow to her throat in front of the full-length mirror of
the wardrobe trailer, “there’s no way I’d be caught dead on the tube in this outfit.”
When it came to clothing, Mish had a penchant for the inappropriate. Her personal style was a blend of the most outrageous,
unseasonable and (all too often) unsightly trends of the moment. Today, for her first day of work on set, she had shown up
in an acid-wash denim miniskirt, suede stiletto boots and a large yellow sweater knitted out of feathers that looked as if
they’d been plucked from some unfortunate cousin of Big Bird.
Now, in addition to being hungover and under-slept, Mish was sinking into a terrible sulk. This was just two steps away from
a tantrum, Meredith knew, and it made her twitchy with apprehension. They sat in a grump, stomachs lurching as the car crept
forward another few inches and came to a halt, nearly rear-ending a girl on a Vespa in front of them.
“Wanka!” the driver hollered at the girl in the helmet, and then wagged his tongue in the rearview mirror.
Mish hissed softly into her feathers, and Meredith was afraid her friend might be about to chuck. The only thing that ever
made Meredith ill was the sight of other people throwing up.
“So what did you think of Kathleen?” Meredith hoped to distract Mish from any
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