email. Lou picked it up before she hurried out to meet Jo, and she has yet to reply. ‘Forgot to tell you,’ she calls out to Spike over the rush of the water, ‘Hannah’s planning a hen weekend.’
‘Uh?’ he croaks from the living room.
‘Hannah wants a weekend away, in Glasgow – just me, her and Sadie. She emailed me about it last night.’
‘Glasgow?’ Spike exclaims, at the bathroom doorway now, looking oddly perky, considering he was on the verge of death a few moments earlier.
‘Yes.’ Lou quickly undresses and sinks into the warm, sudsy water. ‘It would make sense, wouldn’t it, going back there to celebrate? We could relive our misspent youth.’ She laughs hollowly, waiting for Spike to protest that it’s too far away and too expensive, and what would he do by himself all weekend?
‘When’s it happening?’ he asks.
‘Don’t know, but pretty soon I’d imagine. She wants me to call her so we can talk about dates.’ Lou reaches over the bath to grab one of the Sunday supplements from the floor.
‘Dates?’ Spike repeats.
It’s irritating her now, this echoing thing, as if words like ‘Glasgow’ and ‘dates’ are unfamiliar and strange and he needs to practise making the sounds.
‘You know,’ she says slowly, as if speaking to a small child. ‘ Dates. Not the sticky kind that come in a box. The calendar kind – like when we’d go.’
Spike runs a hand through his hair that’s pressed in different directions from where he’s been lying on it. Dark, bruisy patches lurk under his eyes, and his skin looks starved of daylight. ‘You mean like a whole weekend away?’ he says. ‘In Glasgow?’
Lou eyes him steadily over the magazine. ‘Yeah. Me, Hannah and Sadie off the leash for two whole days.’ She widens her eyes, teasing him. ‘God knows what we’d get up to.’
He grins, a faint flush replacing his deathy pallor. ‘So are you going then?’
‘How can I, Spike?’ Lou pokes her toes out of the water and flexes them.
‘Well, why not?’
‘Um … for one thing, there’d be the train fare, the hotel, meals, drinks and …’ Lou shrugs. ‘I can’t afford it. I’m absolutely stony broke.’
‘But … you just went out for brunch.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘and it was Jo’s treat. I can’t afford a whole weekend away.’
‘God, that’s a shame.’ Spike’s forehead crinkles in sympathy. ‘I mean, they are your best mates, and Hannah will only be getting married once, hopefully.’
Lou inhales the mildewy bathroom air as an image forms in her mind: of Hannah and Sadie perched on bar stools, laughing their heads off like old times. Hannah will be glowing with pre-wedding excitement, and Sadie will be all red lips and curves and tumbling chestnut hair, and men will be falling over themselves to talk to them. Then she sees herself, not in her favourite vintage cocktail dress which she bought when she was a student, and which she loves and still fits her, but in an acrylic brown tabard with Let’s Bounce written across the chest. And she’s not on a bar stool between her two best friends, but on her hands and knees, using her little purple plastic scraper to remove a blob of congealed coronation chicken off the floor.
Spike is at the bathroom cabinet now, taking out a pair of tiny scissors and tilting his head back in front of its mirrored door, all the better to study his nasal hairs. He didn’t have those when she met him. He just had a hairy chest – still does, of course – which Lou had found manly and sexy because, at nineteen, she’d never encountered one in an intimate setting before. Spike was different in other ways too, with his dangerous dark eyes and brief flurry of pop stardom in his youth, which she’d felt certain would burst back into life, if she stood back and waited patiently for long enough.
‘Oooch,’ Spike exclaims, snipping a hair. Lou drapes the magazine over the edge of the bath and observes the process with interest.
‘Uh?’ he croaks from the living room.
‘Hannah wants a weekend away, in Glasgow – just me, her and Sadie. She emailed me about it last night.’
‘Glasgow?’ Spike exclaims, at the bathroom doorway now, looking oddly perky, considering he was on the verge of death a few moments earlier.
‘Yes.’ Lou quickly undresses and sinks into the warm, sudsy water. ‘It would make sense, wouldn’t it, going back there to celebrate? We could relive our misspent youth.’ She laughs hollowly, waiting for Spike to protest that it’s too far away and too expensive, and what would he do by himself all weekend?
‘When’s it happening?’ he asks.
‘Don’t know, but pretty soon I’d imagine. She wants me to call her so we can talk about dates.’ Lou reaches over the bath to grab one of the Sunday supplements from the floor.
‘Dates?’ Spike repeats.
It’s irritating her now, this echoing thing, as if words like ‘Glasgow’ and ‘dates’ are unfamiliar and strange and he needs to practise making the sounds.
‘You know,’ she says slowly, as if speaking to a small child. ‘ Dates. Not the sticky kind that come in a box. The calendar kind – like when we’d go.’
Spike runs a hand through his hair that’s pressed in different directions from where he’s been lying on it. Dark, bruisy patches lurk under his eyes, and his skin looks starved of daylight. ‘You mean like a whole weekend away?’ he says. ‘In Glasgow?’
Lou eyes him steadily over the magazine. ‘Yeah. Me, Hannah and Sadie off the leash for two whole days.’ She widens her eyes, teasing him. ‘God knows what we’d get up to.’
He grins, a faint flush replacing his deathy pallor. ‘So are you going then?’
‘How can I, Spike?’ Lou pokes her toes out of the water and flexes them.
‘Well, why not?’
‘Um … for one thing, there’d be the train fare, the hotel, meals, drinks and …’ Lou shrugs. ‘I can’t afford it. I’m absolutely stony broke.’
‘But … you just went out for brunch.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘and it was Jo’s treat. I can’t afford a whole weekend away.’
‘God, that’s a shame.’ Spike’s forehead crinkles in sympathy. ‘I mean, they are your best mates, and Hannah will only be getting married once, hopefully.’
Lou inhales the mildewy bathroom air as an image forms in her mind: of Hannah and Sadie perched on bar stools, laughing their heads off like old times. Hannah will be glowing with pre-wedding excitement, and Sadie will be all red lips and curves and tumbling chestnut hair, and men will be falling over themselves to talk to them. Then she sees herself, not in her favourite vintage cocktail dress which she bought when she was a student, and which she loves and still fits her, but in an acrylic brown tabard with Let’s Bounce written across the chest. And she’s not on a bar stool between her two best friends, but on her hands and knees, using her little purple plastic scraper to remove a blob of congealed coronation chicken off the floor.
Spike is at the bathroom cabinet now, taking out a pair of tiny scissors and tilting his head back in front of its mirrored door, all the better to study his nasal hairs. He didn’t have those when she met him. He just had a hairy chest – still does, of course – which Lou had found manly and sexy because, at nineteen, she’d never encountered one in an intimate setting before. Spike was different in other ways too, with his dangerous dark eyes and brief flurry of pop stardom in his youth, which she’d felt certain would burst back into life, if she stood back and waited patiently for long enough.
‘Oooch,’ Spike exclaims, snipping a hair. Lou drapes the magazine over the edge of the bath and observes the process with interest.
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