All That and Then Some

ALICE - Everybody Hurts

SINCE VIC SULKED OFF to bed as soon as we got home from our spectacularly uncelebratory celebration dinner, I decided to celebrate with Vivian instead. Best friends (even those you've just repaired a five-year falling-out with) are so much more reliable than husbands when it comes to wanting to have a few little drinks and not think about the tough stuff. As always, Viv is enthusiastically in favour of whatever sounds the most fun.

We sit on the floor of her room with a bottle of Prosecco between us and imagine all the fancy things the future might hold.

"Do you think they'll fly you to Sicily first class?" she gasps eagerly, topping up my glass. "Or — ohmigod — I'll bet JosstheBoss has a private jet!"

I imagine myself trapped in the tight confines of a Lear Jet with Joss Carvil for 12 hours and shudder. What on earth would we talk about?

"Slow down, Viv. I haven't even signed the agreement yet. Buddy is having it reviewed by a corporate lawyer, just to make sure it's all above board."

"But basically, they're giving you money to expand. Without giving up control."

"Well. Not all control. I mean, a deal like this, you're going to have to give something up. But we've made sure we retain 51% of the business between us and can walk away from Carvil and keep the name and original location if things don't work out."

"And in the meantime, you get to go to Sicily for their big corporate retreat! And stay at the Gran Venduti Hotel! Do you know who stays there? CELEBRITIES! It's crawling with them. I'll bet you meet Victoria Beckham! Or Ryan Gosling! Oh my god, you're going to need clothes. Spectacular, perfect clothes. I'm going to have to get into my storage closet at home. I have JUST THE THING! I have ALL THE THINGS!"

I don't care about clothes even half as much as Vivian does, but it's nice to see her so excited. I decide I'll let her have this little project if it helps to take her mind off Leslie.

"Speaking of home," I say gently, knocking back my fizzy Italian wine and topping us both up again. "Are you sure Leslie is seeing someone else? Really sure? Because Vic said tonight—"

My friend closes her eyes in pain at the mention of her partner's name.

"Sorry," I say, grabbing her arm. "Sorry, sorry. I don't mean to drag it all up again. It's just, Vic says Leslie has been crying at work. Really devastated. And he seems to think that maybe *you* were the one who started a big fight and threw accusations around when really there was nothing the matter. He thinks maybe you tend to be a little... dramatic? And maybe—"

"She's devastated?" whispers Vivian.

I nod. "According to Vic."

We sip Prosecco in silence for a few minutes while she processes.

I'm about to remind her that she has a history of breaking up with people when things get serious, but my phone lights up with an incoming FaceTime from a number I don't recognize.

Who would FaceTime me at almost midnight? I tap the green circle and lift the phone above my face looking for a flattering angle.

Eloise Moreau's perfectly made-up face (the Carvil PR woman) fills the screen. It looks like she's still in the office.

"Alice. Eloise here."

"Yes," I reply, still moving my phone around, looking for an angle that doesn't give me a double chin. "Eloise, it's nearly midnight."

"Is it really?" she says offhandedly as if it being the middle of the night is a piece of useless trivia. "I just want to confirm that we'll bring a camera crew around to your cafe tomorrow afternoon. Joss will meet you there. We want to do a teaser—a little pre-story story. You know. Not a big deal. "

"Umm. But you know we're still reviewing the agreements and—"

"Fine, fine. Like I said," she smiles tightly like explaining something to a dim-witted child, "It's a pre-story."

I remember that tomorrow's Saturday and that means dance challenge enthusiasts coming in and out, making videos and buying pastries. If I add a whole camera crew to the mix, Natalie will lose her mind.

"Does it have to be at the cafe?" I ask before she hangs up on me. "Because—"

"Of course it has to be at the cafe. That's the whole point. Alice, I suggest you stop drinking and get some sleep. You'll want to be fresh and energetic tomorrow. No puffy, tired faces. See you at 11."

She clicks off and my phone screen goes black.

It's unfortunate that I don't take her advice.

THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up beside Vivian on the pull-out couch in Vic's TV room. I crack one desiccated eye open against the painfully bright winter sunlight streaming through the unshaded window.

I lift my head from the pile of fashion magazines that I'd fallen asleep on and it blooms with a Prosecco hangover headache. Ouch. Beside me, Vivian groans and pulls the covers over her head.

The plinking sound that dragged me out of my grizzly sleep plinks again and I realize that it's coming from Vivian's phone, which is sitting on the sheets between us. As it lights up, I can see a stream of messages from Leslie, each increasingly maniacal. The latest:

< And I want my underwear back! Who STEALS a person's underwear and bras???? What a FUCKED UP thing to do.

What a lunatic that woman is, I think, immediately taking Viv's side without any context. If Vivian stole Leslie's underwear, I'm sure she had a good...

Oh. Wait a minute. Something unsettling has just occurred to me.

I gently push myself into a sitting position, shuddering against the wave of nausea that occurs simply from moving, and get off the bed to find the black canvas backpack I'd helped Viv pack her things into the other day. I unbuckle the strap with shaking hands and find it full of the cotton essentials that I'd thrown in there. On reflection, I might have made the incorrect assumption that they were Viv's, which seems, now, to be unlikely. I can't quite picture Vivian wearing anything so basic and comfortable as a Gap sports bra. She's more the LaPerla sort.

Ah. I see what I may have done there.

Unfortunately, there's no time to put my mistake to rights because I remember with panic that I'm supposed to be meeting Eloise at the cafe in just over an hour.

I grab the outfit that Vivian and I drunkenly selected from the items she'd brought from her closet (a vintage Westwood tartan jumpsuit) and, too hungover to second guess her taste, herd myself into the shower.