Page 3 of Wild Tonic
When Clementine Cameron awoke, she wondered who had implanted a jackhammer into her brain.
Why had she thought it was a good idea to mix champagne and tequila?
She groaned and pulled the covers back over her head, closing her eyes, trying to gain some brief respite from the pain. The phone on the bedside table shrilled and Clem winced. She reached a hand out and picked up the receiver, bringing it to her ear.
“Hello?” she croaked.
“Clem! Have you seen the time? We should have checked out over an hour ago!”
Her friend Leona’s voice went straight through her head. Clem opened her eyes and found her mobile, groaning as she stared at the screen. It was after midday and their train back to London was in little over half an hour.
“Where are you?”
“I’m trying to shove all my stuff into my suitcase and shower at the same time. It’s not going well. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes?”
If she wanted to get home, Clem knew she didn’t really have an option. “Sure. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Reluctantly, she pushed the duvet off and shuddered. She needed to feel clean and the five minutes she had to wash her hair and shower wouldn’t be enough. It was going to have to do. In super-quick time, she was ready. She stuffed her lemon-yellow bridesmaid’s dress and previous day’s clothes back into her Gucci holdall, gave the room a quick sweep and, satisfied that she had all her belongings, headed towards reception.
The lingering smell of a cooked breakfast invaded her nostrils and immediately her stomach rolled and heaved. Hangovers really did suck.
Leona was already there, seemingly fascinated by something on her phone. Her dark hair was piled messily on top of her head and she was dressed in yoga pants and a huge sweatshirt. She waved the device in Clem’s direction. “Have you seen the messages on those pictures you posted last night? Who was that guy?”
Clem shook her head; she was barely awake and dressed, there had been no time to check her social media. She waited patiently for the receptionist to finish talking to one of the concierges, tapping her manicured nails on the desk. The receptionist was shooting her the side-eye and Clem was sure she was deliberately drawing out her conversation.
“Excuse me?” she asked, after a couple more minutes with no movement. “I need to check out, I have a train to catch. It was room one fourteen.”
The receptionist sighed and turned her attention to Clem. “Ah, yes. I’m sure if you had checked out at the correct time, you wouldn’t be in danger of missing your train. Let me get your bill for you.” The seemingly sweet tone of her voice belied the underlying sarcasm. “If everything is in order…”
Clem scanned the bill, noting the charges for two bottles of tequila. At least that went some way to explaining why she felt as horrendous as she did, even if she couldn’t quite remember ordering them. “That’s fine,” she said, pushing the sheet of paper back towards the woman.
It felt like an eternity as the receptionist tapped in the payment details and took her platinum card, raising one eyebrow as she did so.
“We hope you enjoyed your stay at The Met Hotel, Ms Cameron, and look forward to welcoming you again soon.” The woman beamed at her.
The change in tone instantly made Clem think that the receptionist had taken one look at the name on the credit card and nailed exactly who she was. It happened more frequently since she’d joined the reality showPretty Rich Things. The show followed a cluster of both self-made and inherited up-and-coming twenty-somethings as they made their own way in the business world. As the face of up-and-coming fashion brand Stelle D’Oro, not to mention one of the major shareholders, she was beginning to get recognised more and more. Not just by the people who bought the garments, but by people who watched the programme. While the Cameron family had the money to invest, Clem herself had been involved in much of the process, working with the designers on everything from t-shirts to underwear. The small, yet exclusive, online range was gaining in popularity with each episode that went out.
“Come on, Clem, we don’t want to miss the train,” called Leona. “I can’t be doing with hanging around the station for another hour to get the next one.”
The two of them half-ran, half-walked to the station, which was thankfully less than five minutes away. They crashed through the ticket barriers and found the platform where the train was waiting. The guard ushered them on and slammed the door behind them. As they made their way along the train to find their seats in First Class, the train lurched away.
“Phew!” said Leona. She made a big show of flopping down into her seat.
Clem shoved her holdall onto the rack above the seats and sat down opposite Leona. “Ugh. How much did we drink last night?”
Leona laughed. “The rest of us, not so much. You, well, you were sharing a bottle of tequila with a very handsome man. Who, by all accounts, is apparently quite famous. You still haven’t checked your messages yet have you?”
Searching through her handbag for her phone, Clem found it had run out of battery while she’d showered and packed. No wonder she hadn’t seen any notifications. She rummaged around trying to find a charger and plugged it in. Within moments, the device sprang into life and with it came what seemed like a million messages. She found the pictures she had posted of her and Nate and stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Her memory of him didn’t disappoint, he was utterly gorgeous: scruffy blond hair, verging on long; amazing blue eyes; and a body to die for.
As she scrolled through the comments and read some of them, her need to throw up old tequila grew stronger and stronger, not only attributable to her hangover. It seemed that Nate wasn’t just some bloke that happened to be in a hotel bar the previous evening.
No.
He was Nate McKenna, lead guitarist with the rock band Blood Stone Riot.
What the hell had she done?
“Well? Are you going to see him again?” asked Leona.
