Page 19 of Always the Bridesmaid

‘I’ve got to go on a search for The King.’ The caffeine is moving directly to my head and marginally relieving the fog.

‘Ah, yeah, the Elvis suit. Trust Jakey.’

I smile the way a mother might over her child. Because that is how Drew, Brooks and I view Jake – he is Drew’s baby brother.

‘And Charlie’s driving you?’

I nod.

Unfortunately.

‘He seems like a really nice guy,’ Brooks says. ‘A bit British but decent.’

I make a non-committal noise through my next mouthful of my warm necessity.

‘You two seem to have hit it off,’ he adds.

I really ought to have stayed in drama school.

Before I can reply, the comedian himself comes into the kitchen, fully dressed for a change.

‘Morning, morning,’ he says nauseatingly brightly.

‘Morning, buddy,’ Brooks replies. ‘There’s coffee in the pot. I’m going to take a shower. Good luck in your quest today. Oh, and have a good gig tonight, Charlie-boy – or break a leg, is it?’

‘Something like that,’ he replies.

Garrrrrrgh, I have to endure his comedy show later. Urgh, this day is going to be looooooong.

Once Brooks has left the room, placing a hand that feels both mocking and sympathetic on my shoulder as he moves past, Charlie begins to sing.

‘Wise men say, only fools drink for two. But I can’t help, holding your hair back for you.’

‘Ha. Ha.’ I swivel on my bare heels and go in search of my handbag and sandals.

Of all the people who could have witnessed my demise, it had to be him. FML.

‘Here,’ Charlie says, handing me a brown paper bag as he gets into the driver’s side of his car. ‘It won’t hold for long but if you need to puke, catch it in there, would you?’

I desperately want to wipe his supercilious look right off his face. But I accept the bag huffily, knowing I may well need it.

Next, he hands me another brown paper bag from which I can smell just-baked pastries from the frozen selection I had delivered to the house. ‘I grabbed us one each on the way out. Croissant or pain au chocolat? You can have first dibs. Whichever one makes you less likely to vomit in my car.’

I take the bag – I am actually a carb-loader when I have a hangover – and press my temple against the cool glass window as Charlie drives us away from the house.

‘It’s hardly a palace in here,’ I mumble, knowingly pathetically.

‘If it’s good enough for Elvis…’

He presses a button on his old-fashioned dash and, too loudly, starts to sing ‘Hound Dog’.

Kill. Me. Now.

Despite the racket, I close my eyes and feel myself drift into a semi-lucid sleep.

‘Argh, shit. Not again.’

I open my eyes to see Charlie pulling into the side of the road. As far as I can see, we are in the middle of nothingness.

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