Dying to Live

Chapter 4 - The Morning After

London

Before Thailand

The uninvited sunlight streamed through the bedroom window and woke me from an uneasy sleep. I'd forgotten to pull the curtains, again. I stretched my arm out across the double bed expecting empty coolness. It was warm. There was a body there. What the hell?

I racked my brain. What the fuck happened last night? Who's in my bed with me? Who the fuck happened last night? A memory flashed through my head, it was fleeting but I caught the gist of it as it accelerated out of my mind and off over the horizon. Hazel? I'd been drinking with Hazel yesterday afternoon. Oh my God, could it be Hazel here in my bed, could it be the bitch who stole my job?

The body next to me stirred. Good news, at least it wasn't a dead body.

"Morning."

"Morning," I said wondering who I was talking to.

"You promised me the best breakfast in the world."

I recognised Hazel's voice. What the hell had happened?

"Did I?"

"Yep, the best breakfast ever, you said," she said.

"Okay."

I struggled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. I leaned my head against the cold metal of the fridge door. A few seconds of this cool relief should kick-start my morning... please. Rather than the relief I had hoped for, I became aware of something digging into my forehead. It was the fridge magnet which held the two halves of my favourite ever photograph; the photograph which my wife had ripped in two and flung in my face the day she left. There she was, smiling that amazing smile. Her short blonde hair framed her thin face beautifully. High cheekbones and thick dark eyelashes drew your attention to her stunning hazel eyes. Hazel eyes, mmm?

I stared at the photo and realised how alike she and Hazel were. They could be twins, except Hazel's eyes were green. The two of them even smiled the same way; open mouthed and confident, showing off beautiful white, not-quite-straight teeth. Jesus Christ, what's wrong with me, was I using Hazel as a wife substitute? I stuck the ripped pieces in a drawer, out of sight, and tried to concentrate on the matter in hand.

I grilled some bacon and sausages, and stuck the hot meat between a couple of slices of bread, soaked in brown HP sauce. Best breakfast ever, well, the best I could manage with the world's worst hangover.

She sat up in bed when I came in with the tray of steaming sandwiches and tea. She pulled the sheet up to her chin in a ridiculous pretence of modesty.

"I've still got food poisoning," I told her, "so I won't be in work today. Just so you know."

"Shit, work. I need to phone in," said Hazel, getting her imaginary knickers in a twist.

"Where's my bag? I need my phone."

Hearing only one side of the conversation fed my sense of insecurity. Idiotic, I know, but I couldn't help myself.

"Hi, it's Hazel, can I speak to Richard, please?"

Silence.

"Hi, Richard."

Silence.

"Yeah, still suffering. It's hard to tell with flu."

Silence.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I should leave it until Monday."

Silence.

"Sorry, what?"