Hannah assumed she’d woken up in
someone’s spare room. It was small, had a flat-pack wardrobe and flimsy spare
room curtains. . The walls were in pastel lilac. There was, mercifully, no
potpourri. She didn’t think her hangover could cope with potpourri; coming to in
some unknown person’s spare room was tough enough.
Her clothes were neatly folded on
a chair beside the bed. She peered
rather anxiously beneath the floral sheets and was relieved to see she was still
wearing her knickers but disconcerted to find she was also wearing a rather
prim, floral nightie. It had lace finishing at the neck. She didn’t check the
hem.
Hannah tried to conjure up the
events of the previous night that had brought her there. She remembered just the
first two bars, and then the club. They’d switched clubs, more than once she
thought, and sometime Sheila had dropped out, and then Joanna. And there’d been
some guy called Rory, but he’d been seen off by an enormous... For a moment she
gasped in horror but then looked around her. No huge gangsta male would have a
faultlessly Ikea back-bedroom like this. It looked decidedly Born Again.
She shrugged and got up to put on
her dress, leaving the awful nightie on the coverlet. She’d go downstairs, make
a few apologies, find out where she was and get a cab back home. Her dress was
up over her head when the door open and a huge man walked in, covered in bling
and scars.
“Put your nightie back on,” he
bellowed, “You supposed to look like a house mouse not a tart! They pay extra
for house mice.”
The distant echo of some late
night compact sounded faintly in Hannah’s back brain. That last slammer had been
a slammer too many.
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