Page 44 of Ex in the City
‘Oh, it is not a good morning at all,’ I complain. ‘I have the hangover from hell, and I woke up with no idea where I was, I was in such a panic until you walked in.’
Dylan shrugs, seemingly unfazed by my suffering. He’s a picture of perfect health this morning, despite our wild night out last night. He plonks himself down on top of the bed next to me.
‘You don’t recognise your old room?’ he says with a laugh.
I rub my temples and squint around, only now realising that I’m at Dylan’s house.
‘I do now that you mention it,’ I admit. ‘You’ve redecorated.’
‘Yeah,’ he acknowledges. ‘I fancied a change last year, so I redid every room.’
Now that the place looks familiar, the warmth of nostalgia goes a little way to taking the edge off my hangover.
‘I don’t remember coming back to your house,’ I admit. ‘Or much else about last night. My God, what did we do? I feel awful, and my back… Every time I move, it’s like I’m lying on brokenglass. Am I an old lady now? Will I complain about my back every day until I die? My auntie warned me not to wear a push-up bra in my teens, she said it would wreck my back and attract the wrong boys – she was right about the second part.’
Dylan smiles mischievously, making my heart pound even more.
‘Well,’ he grins, and I know it’s going to be bad news, so I grit my teeth and brace myself. ‘The good news is you don’t have a bad back. So, you’re younger and fitter than you think you are, and all that weird stuff your auntie told you is probably not true.’
‘And the bad news?’ I ask through a wince.
‘Theothernews – not the bad news – is that you got a tattoo,’ he says with a smile.
I recoil, my stomach churning.
‘Oh, God, no,’ I squeak. ‘What have I done?’
I kick off the bedcovers and roll around like a maniac, trying to get a look at my back.
‘Tell me I didn’t get a lower back tattoo,’ I moan as I keep trying. ‘Can you get me a mirror, so I can see it?’
‘You didn’t get a lower back tattoo,’ he tells me. I sigh with relief. ‘Technically, it’s closer to your bum, just above your right cheek.’
My jaw drops.
‘I don’t need to get you a mirror,’ he tells me, placing his empty bowl down on the side before slipping off his pyjama bottoms. ‘Here.’
And there it is. A tattoo of a tiger wearing a crown, on his thigh.
‘We got matching ones,’ he announces proudly. ‘I went for the thigh, instead of the butt.’
I flop face first into my pillow.
‘Why, why, why?’ I groan into it.
‘It was your idea,’ Dylan says. ‘Remember?’
My idea?
I only have to think about it for a second before a flash of last night pops into my head.
‘Wilde and King,’ I mutter, sitting up again.
‘Yep,’ he says with a nod. ‘The boys and I were getting matching band tattoos, to celebrate the new tour, and you’d had that one done while I was busy. So I couldn’t really say no when you told me I should get a matching one. I guess I’d forgotten what you were like when you’ve had a drink. You seemed pretty chill about it.’
‘You got a silly tattoo done, to make me feel less stupid?’ I say.
‘I mean, all tattoos are silly, when you think about it,’ he replies. ‘And I’m covered in them anyway and… I liked the sentiment. We’re bound together forever.’
