“I just can’t make sense of it. I mean what the hell has happened? How did that man get my cheque? How was my signature on it?” As I asked the questions my voice raised in pitch and volume.
“Whoa, calm down,” said Serena. “I know it’s only half nine, but I’m going to open this,” she said, indicating to the three litre container of rose.
I attempted to protest, but my heart wasn’t in it. Heck, my career has gone down the loo, may as well wreck my liver too. By the time Sebastian got back from his run we were both merry, watching a program about control-freak brides. Serena offered him a glass of our pink poison but he declined with a wry smile, stating that he had a few phone calls to make.
She’s popped round a few times since and called at least twice a day to keep me informed of the latest gossip and wedding news. Her hen do is coming up soon and she’s decided on a fancy dress theme to inflict on us all - ‘Pop stars.’ I did try and make excuses not to go, but she’s having none of it.
I had hoped that the wagging tongues in Chambers would have stopped by now, that they had found something more interesting to talk about than me but apparently not. On my instruction, Serena has given me a no-holds barred rendition of the gossip about me and it seems that most have deemed me guilty already.
It’s a sad state of affairs when a load of lawyers neglect the fundamental principle our criminal justice system is based on: innocent until proven guilty.
Before I know it, our week is over and Sebastian has to return to work. I sit, alone, trying to formulate some sort of action plan to keep me occupied. We have absolutely no food in the house, so I guess I should pop out and get some bits. We’ve lived on an assortment of fast food for the last week and we’re totally out of bread and milk.
I pull on an old pair of jogging bottoms and one of Sebastian’s hoodies from the laundry basket. I contemplate a baseball cap and sunglasses but dismiss them as too z-list celebrity wannabe. There is absolutely no point in makeup and as my hair looks like it belongs to someone who has never heard of anti-frizz serum. I don’t even bother trying to brush it.
I feel a strange sense of liberation as I leave the house looking like an absolute state. I turn out of the bottom of the drive and my heart nearly stops when I’m confronted by a seedy looking man wielding a camera.
“Alright Lauren!” he yells cheerfully, snapping away at me. I’m blinded by the flash and try to conceal my face using my hands.
“So what about this bribery business then?” he continues.
“Go away!” I scream “No comment!”
It’s clear that he’s not going to stop, so I start to run away, gaining speed as I go. I don’t know where I’m headed but when I’m sure that he hasn’t followed me I stop and turn round. In the distance I can make out the man getting into a battered old car parked across the road from my house. He’s got his pictures.
I reach for my mobile to call Sebastian and realise that I’ve left it at home. I have however, got my wallet so I make my way to a nearby corner shop. Inside, I grab a basket and fill it with packets of biscuits, chocolate bars, packets of sweets and most importantly, wine. I pay without looking at the cashier and make my way home, all the time keeping an eye out for lurking paparazzi.
I eat my stash quickly, without really tasting it. I don’t feel any better now, but as I was stuffing the fat and sugar-laden food into my mouth it was like I was blocking out all of the crap that has happened lately. I feel really, really sick now. I know that adding wine to my already swollen stomach is not the answer, but hey, in for a penny and all.
I pour myself a large measure of the cheap alcohol into a tumbler and throw in some ice for good measure. The wine tastes sour and I try not to gag as I swallow a large mouthful. Undeterred, I carry on working my way through the remaining food in an attempt to block out the