Sunday – Taylor Part One
Her head hurt. No, hurt wasn’t the right word. Hurt was when you cut your finger, or grazed your knee. Her head… imagine a car striking you dead in the hip, so your upper body went one way and your lower body the other and every bone was wrenched and torn. She knew how that felt, because it happened a few years ago. She remembered the pain like it was yesterday. This was worse than that.
She leaned her head over the edge of the bed and made coughing motions until bile filled her mouth. She fell to the floor and staggered out the room. Her hand went to the bathroom door and she realised it wasn’t there. In fact, the walls had changed colour and the carpet was different. Her mouth filled with sick and she turned first one way, then the other, then dumped it onto the carpet.
A face appeared from another room and stared at her. It was a face she vaguely recognised, though she couldn’t say where from. It spoke. ‘Oh man, did you have to?’ Then it vanished. She staggered back into the room from which she’d come and looked at the bed. It wasn’t her bed.
It finally dawned on her that she wasn’t at home. The sun rose a second time when she looked at the bed and saw a man she didn’t recognise. She shifted from foot to foot and wriggled. And they’d had sex. She took two steps and dropped to her knees, hands holding her head. Where was she? And why was her head about to fall off?
She dug about for her clothes, crawling around on all fours. After a few, head-pounding minutes, she pulled on her jeans and t-shirt, found her jacket and staggered out into the hallway.
The stairs proved tricky but she got down them without dying, which was enough of a triumph to punch the air. She winced as the movement made her gorge rise. She wrestled with the front door, a battle it spent a good five minutes winning, before wrenching it open and stepping out into bright sunlight.
She was on a street, entirely unfamiliar and as similar as a million other streets across London. It was early enough that the sun still hid behind the houses opposite, a beam like a ray from the heavens cutting between them to blind her. Luckily, early morning meant commuters, so she followed the guys in suits and found herself at Finchley Road Tube.
How the hell had she got here? She couldn’t remember anything about last night. Well, she remembered getting ready and getting on the tube. She remembered finding a club that was open early. She remembered Monique having to go early. She’d said it was fine because she was with… what was his name?
Whoever it was, he was asleep in the house she’d just left behind and if she was lucky, she’d never see him again. What had she been thinking? She was gonna kill Monique. Or maybe just not tell her anything. She groaned at the uncomfortable patch between her legs. She just needed to get home and showered and go to bed. Maybe when she woke up again, her head would have returned from the lowest circle of hell and work properly.
She got the usual glances as she limped through the tube station. The accident had left her with two legs, but a hip that would never work properly again. As her sporting exploits up to that point ran to dashing for the bus and pub crawls, it wasn’t the end of the world. The physios never failed to be impressed by her progress, but she still looked a bit awkward when she walked.
The tube was packed and it was four stations in before she realised she was going the wrong way. She groaned and tried to get off at the next station, but her hip chose that moment to seize up and she flailed about in her seat until the doors closed.
She rose early for the next one and stepped out at Westminster. The thought of being on the tube any longer made her stomach flip. She kept almost being sick and having to swallow it, which was the grossest thing possible. Better to have the Thames to spit it into.
She strolled down the river, every footstep ringing with the thudding in her head. She bought a coffee and sat on a bench, staring blearily at the world. As the pounding slowed, she clambered up and kept walking. She passed Embankment station and paused, her eye caught by the most incredible flowers.
There was a tiny stall, just a table really, bearing more flowers than should have been possible. There were blues and red and violets and pinks and orange and white and all the other colours still threatening to come spewing from her mouth. They were peaceful though and as she drew nearer, the smell settled her stomach and calmed her head.
The flower seller watched her with unusual eyes. As they met hers, they closed and she realised he was swaying on his feet. Her first grin of the day made inroads into her lips and she raised a hand.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello, young lady, how…’ He cut off, stifling a yawn and rubbing his head. ‘Apologies, truly. How are you today?’
‘You know how you feel? Like that, only fifty times worse.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘C’mon, what were you drinking last night?’
He blushed and tried to hide behind some chrysanthemums. She chuckled and winced and stopped. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Tell me, did you wake up in someone else’s bed?’
His blush grew deeper and her laugh came from her belly, filling the air and making her headache sit up and start banging. ‘Was she pretty? Or he, sorry, no offence.’
‘She is exquisite. She’s a goddess with hair like the night and eyes in which even the truest of men lose themselves.’
‘Wow. Impressive. Mine was a munter. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t really remember, but I think he was a bit of a dick.’
‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’
It was her turn to blush and she nodded. ‘Touche. Your flowers are very beautiful.’
‘Thank you. I do believe you should buy something from me. I have it on good faith that you might want some today.’
‘Do you now. And who told you that?’
‘Oh, the wind and the stars. The sound that comes just before daybreak, the sigh the moon makes as she sinks below the horizon.’
‘Lots of people talking about me.’
‘You’d be amazed.’
They grinned at one another and she stuck her face in first one bunch of flowers and then another. They all had their own smells and every one was as lovely as the last. As she breathed them in, her headache faded until it was a dull throb at the base of her skull. She took a step back and looked at him.
‘Why were you drinking?’
‘Big thing at work, lots of stress.’
‘What’s stressful about selling flowers?’
‘I have to meet my quota. The boss is pretty hard on us.’
‘Wow. I didn’t realise it was such a high-pressure job.’
‘Not many people do. Can I tempt you to some roses?’
‘Yes you may.’
He wrapped them with a grace she hadn’t expected after seeing the puffer jacket and the bloodshot eyes. He handed them over and she dug for her wallet.
‘No charge. Really.’
‘How does that fit in with meeting your quota?’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes, the quota just doesn’t matter. It was nice talking to you.’
‘You too.’
She strolled slowly away. He shouted after her. ‘Hang on a minute.’
She turned and watched him jog slowly across the pavement, wincing with every step. He stopped before her, huffing and puffing.
‘Sorry, forgot to mention. I put a thirteenth in there. If you wanted to give it to someone, it might be nice.’
She nodded, tucking her nose inside the nearest and taking a deep breath. ‘Yeah, that’s a nice idea. Thanks again.’
He sketched a mock bow which she returned with a curtsey and watched him head back off to his stall. Strange man. Nice roses though. Her head still hurt, but was considerably better than she had any right to feel. She looked down into the roses. They were the colour of romance, if such a thing had a colour.
Taylor snorted and shook her head. And she knew all about romance of course. Last night had been all about the romance. She sniffed and headed for the tube. Now she could go home. She walked through the barrier at Embankment and down the escalator. She reached the bottom and hesitated.
She should go home. She needed a shower so bad. But something, some urge compelled her and she headed down the opposite tunnel. Maybe she’d head to the East end, take a wander around Mile End, relive some old memories.
She wandered down the tunnel, wincing as the sound of a badly-played saxophone grew steadily stronger. The guy playing it appeared like a bad cliche at the end of the tunnel. He wore a brown suit and flat cap and was a hundred if he was five. She got the feeling he’d once been very good, but his timing was shot so all the notes bled into one another and made this soupy sort of mess.
He tipped her a nod as she passed, the melody slipping and she gave him a smile. She walked past and paused, glancing back. With a shrug, she pulled a rose free of the bunch and placed it carefully into the soft guitar case he was using to collect money. He looked down at it and the sax slipped from his mouth. When their eyes met, she flinched to see tears collecting in his.
Next Installment Thursday 31st July
