Page 8 of Rafferty's Rules
With a groan, I rest my forehead on the rim of the receptacle, but lift it again when I realise the metal rim will likely leave a mark on my skin given how dehydrated I feel. You know, because I don’t have anything else to be concerned about right now. And while my vision isn’t the best without my glasses, I decide I’m fine not knowing what I’ve gotten myself into this morning while also being certain something unpleasant and furry had climbed into my mouth last night, then promptly died.
With the bucket still clutched in my arms, I find myself making a noise like my grandmother without her false teeth as I glance around at my hazy surroundings, thinking thatdead and furryhas also shed fur all over my teeth.
Sheer drapes cover a double set of French doors, hence the bright light, and sun streams through the latticework of the cute wrought-iron framed balcony beyond, making a shadowy pattern against the floor. The tasteful room is decorated in a dozen variations of white.Which aren’t helping my hangover.An old-fashioned brass bedframe dominates the modest-sized room, and my toes dangle over the high mattress, not quite reaching the wooden floor which is dark and richly stained by age. I notice my glasses are on a whitewashed nightstand. With a deep breath, I decide I can probably let go of the bucket and see the morning for what it really is.
In other words, see the trouble I’m in.
I stand gingerly, sway dramatically, then lean my thighs back against the bed out of necessity. Am I still drunk? In an alternate universe? Grabbing my glasses, I slide them on, placing the bucket, which is embossed with the wordlaundry,on the floor. An antique-looking armoire and a tall chest, both French looking and whitewashed, flank an iron fireplace, and a pale rug and Louis style chair bring the look together. My shoes sit under the chair, my jeans folded over the arm, and my purse on the cushion with the strap wrapped around it. Drunk people don’t usually fold their clothes, do they? And my purse? I wouldn’t have left it like that, would I? A wave of nausea overtakes me again, whether the result of alcohol poisoning or the way I feel like I’m not so much missing something but rather huge chunks of stuff, it’s hard to tell.
So much for living a life of moderation and playing it safe, and those are my actual doctor’s words.
Maybe I checked into a guesthouse last night? Maybe a guesthouse in one of those cute little Edwardian terraced houses I saw yesterday?Yes, that could be it—I stopped for a coffee in a historic part of Sydney in a little house that had been turned into a café. A strange little place, the décor probably unchanged for a hundred years save for the installation of tables and chairs in the place of stuffy parlour furniture. I recall the baskets of knitting placed on each table and the unfortunate odour of damp, very unlike this room which bears the faint smell of fresh paint over the stronger scent of the vase of lilies standing on the hearth.
My head spins as I grab my purse and make my way to one of two doors in the room, guessing correctly that this might be a bathroom. I don’t spend long there. After brushing my teeth with my finger and a small tube of toothpaste I find unopened in a vanity drawer, I wash my face, then tilt my head over the sink to take long gulps of water from the source, taking an extra mouthful to swallow along with my medication. Only then do I look at myself in the mirror to survey the damage.
Hair like a bird’s nest.
My ever-present scar, my battle wound, as much a part of me as I am it.
Skin tight, a little red, and a lotta freckly, my face and shoulders mainly.
Eyes puffy and bloodshot.
‘You look like ten miles of a bad road,’ I tell my reflection.I am never drinking tequila again.‘I’ve been poisoned,’ I mutter, spreading my hands out on my cheeks, pulling my eyelids lower to examine my bloodshot eyeballs. ‘Maybe someone fed me the tequila worm.’
Yuck. I shudder as I try to recollect the events of last night. Drinking, obviously. A mezze platter at a bar when I obviously should’ve made it something to soak up the alcohol like a burger or a steak. Another bar. Maybe another. And then... nothing.
N-O-T-H-I-N-G.
‘Oh my God,’ I groan, dropping my head to my hands. ‘What in the heck did I do last night?’
I’m trembling, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just from the effects of the alcohol. Who gets so drunk they can’t recall what they’ve done and where they’ve been? Frat boys. And me, obviously, but in my defence, this is the first time it has ever happened.
Only because there’s usually someone watching my every move.
Yeah, well, to heck with that. But where in the hell am I?
I glance longingly at a pile of fluffy white towels. Though I’d love to shower, I leave the bathroom to investigate what I’ve gotten myself into. It’s time to pull up my big girl panties, even if I’m currently wearing minuscule ones.
Damn honeymoon shopping.
In the bedroom, I discover my T-shirt isn’t folded along with my jeans. It’s also not in the bed or in any of the drawers, or in the armoire. In fact, there isn’t a solitary thing in any of the furniture. Not a Bible, or guesthouse stationery, tea-kettle, cups or anything. As I stand in the middle of the room, I slowly come to realise that this isn’t a guesthouse, which is just baffling.
Where am I?I find myself sitting heavily in the chair. I pretty sure I’m still in Sydney because, hello, that’s where I was yesterday. And I know I’m safe, because I’m not panickingyetand becauseI’m not stuck in a basement with a bottle of lotion with application instructions.
Which leaves what...
A one-night stand?
I actually snort at the idea that I’d be that outrageous. By my own standards, I have been a little outrageous since leaving Summerfield, but by anyone else’s standards, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, it isn’t very outrageous at all. I sigh at the acknowledgment. Still, I’m making inroads to outrageousness. But a one-night stand is still an unlikely explanation for last night.
For one thing, I still have my panties on. And two, IknowI haven’t had sex.
Someone obviously took me home last night. So maybe a good Samaritan? Or maybe this is a one-night stand that went wrong, or a one-night stand who changed his mind because, as I glance back at the bed, it appears I’m the only one who slept in it. My mind back tracks to the bathroom, hit by a sudden thought, my feet finding me in the small space once again. The inside of the shower is wet, and there’s a leather toiletries bag on the bamboo hamper. As I lift the lid of said hamper, I discover a wet towel inside.
Curious.
I’m not alone. I let the realisation sink in, as much as the little people in my head dancing the lindy hop while wearing steel-toe capped boots will allow.
