"She is drunk." Chalky's observation wasn't particularly necessary, given the way its subject was clumsily weaving her way between tables, almost fatally up-ending a plate-laden waiter, taking a wrong turn on the way to the toilets and having to be gently - and then with increasing firmness - redirected from the restaurant kitchen to her intended destination.
"Yeah." Tom looked over the table. Their plates had been cleared by the poor young lad that Nicki had just attempted to trip up, but the assortment of bottles, glasses and cans semi-circling her place told a clear story. Next to her wine-glass was the bottle of wine she'd picked up from the offy on their way to the BYOB curry house, and next to that were two cans from Tom's four-pack. And while all of these were drained, the glass filled from Chalky's jug of tapwater was untouched.
"She's been on a bit of a mission tonight. I'm surprised she can still stand. What did she have in the pub?"
"I bought her a vodka. Double. You?"
"Same."
Chalky shrugged. "That's an army training for you. They build 'em tough. Shall I phone her a taxi? Even ex-army, I don't think she's in a fit state to navigate her way home."
Tom checked his watch. "Nah, mate - it'll be impossible to get one at this time of night. No, I'll walk her home."
"Ah, right." Chalky looked at him curiously. "So, are you and her, you know...?"
"What? No. No. Well, we almost, once - back in Rochdale - but...no. We're just friends." Shrugging, Tom changed the subject. "I'll be back from Josh's in the middle of the week, so if you need any help with the move, give me a ring."
"Thanks. And - Tom, you'll keep an eye on Kev, won't you?"
"Course I will, mate."
This bromantic exchange was interrupted by the return of Nicki who planted herself in her chair with more deliberation than elegance, then looked mournfully at the empty bottles and cans, and rather disgustedly at the glass of water Tom pushed towards her. She picked it up and drank from it all the same.
"So, what now? Are we going back to the pub? Or are we going dancing? There's a place in town just off the high street that I've heard about -"
"- yes, from our sixth form, because that's where all the underage kids go to get drunk and grope each other. It might be the holidays but that does not mean we're going to hang out with inebriated teenagers." Tom was adamant on this point.
"Tom, you're no fun."
"I've got an early start and a long drive tomorrow."
Nicki pulled a face."Chalky, tell him!"
"Hey, you can leave me out of this. Right, I'm going to go and settle up the bill." Tom tried to protest, but Chalky overrode him. "Consider it my treat - a thank you for all the support you've given me - and payment in advance for the heavy lifting you've offered to do."
As Chalky went to the counter to pay, Tom set about persuading Nicki to leave. "Come on Nik, time for home."
"Don't want to go home. Go dancing."
"What is up with you today?" As she continued to scowl at him, he tried another tactic. "You can't go dancing without putting your coat on first."
"Really?" Nicki brightened considerably.
Tom nodded.
"Promise?"
Tom crossed his fingers behind his back, and nodded again. He'd deal with the fact they weren't going dancing later, and with any luck, she'd've forgotten by the time they got to her house. But for now, Nicki had agreed to put on her coat, and that, for Tom, made his slight untruth a reasonable price to pay.
"Now, have you got everything? Coat - bag - keys - phone - wallet?"
Nicki shrugged. And in her bag, still set to the 'silent' mode she'd selected while invigilating the exam, her phone suddenly lit up.
1 message received.
WRWRWRWRWR
An hour in the gym followed by a brunch meeting with her accountant was not quite enough to take Lorraine's mind off the text message that - weakened by a glass of wine, and tempted by the memory of Nicki's lips (there for the taking if only she'd been bolder - why was she never bold about this?) - she'd sent eleven hours ago.
Eleven and a half hours, to be more precise. And still no reply. Her phone had pinged several times that morning - her PA, her stylist, her personal trainer, the accountant's secretary, Michael - half her address book, it seemed, wanted her attention. But not Nicki.
Was Nicki just playing it cool? Or was she pissed off that she'd turned her down? Which she hadn't, not really, she'd just not reacted quickly enough and then Nicki had been out of the door and then Lorraine'd been left wondering if she'd had a lucky escape or had missed out on something quite special.
This - this uncertainty that left her exposed and vulnerable - this was why she didn't didn't do relationships.
From the hallway, as she hung up her coat, the sounds coming from her kitchen were a reminder that, not long after that text had been sent - as she had sat there, ignoring the tv, impatiently watching her phone and willing it to buzz, trying to suppress the urge to text again, to say it was a mistake, to change the offer of dinner to an offer of a drink (dinner sounded, now she thought about it, maybe that little bit too date-y - while drinks could have been no pressure, mates out for a laugh) - as she had sat there her phone had indeed pinged - and though her heart had raced, the airy bubbles she'd inflated popped when it turned out to be her sister having a domestic emergency.
"What are you watching?"
Lorraine crossed the kitchen, depositing her car keys and phone - checking it again as she did so - on the worktop.
"He's well fit, inne."
On the tv a Frenchman seemed to be doing something to a lobster. "What is that?"
"It's a bisque. I thought I might make one later."
Lorraine cast a glance round her immaculate - because seldom used - designer kitchen. "Really?"
"You know, show my appreciation for letting me stay."
"With that?" Lorraine looked at the tv with something like incurious disgust. "What did the plumber say, anyway?"
"He'll have to order in the part, and his supplier's not open at weekends. So Tuesday, he reckons it'll be delivered. Or Wednesday." As Lorraine's face reflected her reaction to this, Sonya continued, rather forlornly. "I could always stay in the Travelodge if you'd rather I wasn't here. I don't mind."
"No." And then with more emphasis and a bigger attempt at sounding sincere, "No, don't be silly."
And with that decided, Sonya went back to watching her programme and Lorraine set about flicking through that morning's post.
WRWRWRWRWR
Following a shower (extra cold) and coffee (extra strong) Nicki decided some physical exercise might be the thing to shift the rest of her hangover.
She gathered her keys, ready to head out on her run, and then stopped short. Her phone was not on the sideboard where it normally lived. Where was it? A few minutes of frantically scouring the flat - looking in her bag, patting down coat pockets, checking her bedside table (please god, no late-night half-asleep drunk texting), and then, finally, looking in her bag again.
"Oh, come on Nicki, get it together," she told herself, swiping the screen.
Four messages: Chalky, letting her know that, if the offer she'd made last night (she couldn't remember making the offer, but it sounded like the kind of thing she would say when drunk) to help with packing up his flat still stood, then tomorrow would be great and there'd be Sunday lunch in it for her; some scammy rip-off firm, informing her that she was due a refund on the missold PPI she was sure she'd never bought; Tom, from a service station on the borders, hoping that her hangover wasn't too bad.
And one from a number she didn't recognize. She opened it.
WRWRWRWRWR
Returning to the kitchen after a skype meeting with her product development manager, it seemed to Lorraine that Sonya - eyes currently glued to the omlette-challege unfolding on the screen - hadn't moved from her chair once in the forty minutes she'd been away.
"Your phone just went."
Biting down the hope that this time - this time - it might just be Nicki, Lorraine approached the worktop where her phone lay.
1 message received.