Confident Women (Extract)

Chapter Five

My head throbs every time I try lifting it off the pillow.                                                             

Okay. I just need to stay here for a while with the covers pulled up tight.

I’ve always been able to hide under my duvet as an avoidance technique. As a kid, I used to pretend I was camping in a tent somewhere so that I didn’t have worry about monsters hiding under my bed. Then it was to pretend I didn’t have to go to school and face a nerve-wracking presentation or scary exam.

And any alcohol-related embarrassment seems to end up this way, too, with me under the covers, pretending nothing ever happened.

I should give up drinking. I think I’d suit being a teetotaller.

Except for the odd glass of wine in the evening. And what would I drink when I go out to the pub with Zara?

Right. Let’s rethink this. I’m definitely going to give up drinking champagne. And maybe bad cocktails, too.

What exactly happened last night?

I remember Tim spewing out words about his rubbish his life. And Bryony accusing me of nicking her stupid ring. Those are the only two things I need to remember to know that I had a crap night.

Why didn’t I pretend I had some contagious disease?

On the positive side, Auntie Wendy probably doesn’t want me to marry her precious son anymore. Maybe I’ll even be uninvited from the engagement party. And the wedding.

I can hear scuffling noises coming from the living room. Zara is probably wondering why I’m not up yet.

Blinking my eyes open, I grope for my phone on the bedside cabinet and see that it’s only 8:30 a.m.

Forget that. Zara knows me well enough to know exactly why I haven’t emerged from my bedroom yet.

I’m not really one for long lie-ins. Even though it’s a Saturday. But when you’re still feeling slightly delicate from the previous night’s events, it’s totally fine to stay in bed as long as you want. Which in my case will probably be until my headache goes.

Or maybe I could stay here all day and watch omnibuses of all the soaps in bed.

My phone, still sitting in my left hand, bleats my classic Nokia ringtone. I glance at the unknown caller’s number  before answering the call.

“Megan Riley speaking,” I say. That’s how I always answer the phone at work, except today I omit the “Hello, Window Shine Leeds” or “How can I help you?” parts.

“Hello, Megan,” says a female voice. She has a vaguely Scottish accent. Or is it Irish? I can never tell those two apart. “This is Sue Weaver from Oxfam.”

I battle with the pillows to pull myself into an upright position. My head protests, but this is important, isn’t it? This is going to be one of those calls where the other speaker has to check that you’re sitting down first before they tell you the good news.

I’ve already forgotten about the romance-reading shop assistant and her negative response when I handed her my application form. Because this call means I’ve got the job, doesn’t it?

I’ve got the job!

I don’t even think I was this excited when I managed to get myself a paying job after I gave up on university. But this is different. This is going to be my dream job.

Anyway, I only applied for admin jobs at all because my only real-world employment experience was the file-sorting Saturday job I had working for Zara’s dad as a teenager.