‘What happens in Lisbon stays in Lisbon,’ Kate says, grinning wickedly. ‘One night of sin. I won’t breathe a word. God, it might even help you get your mojo back with Rob. Fire up the old furnace. Get you back on the horse.’ She glances at Joaquim. ‘Though he’s more a stallion.’
I look at Joaquim and my brain, despite the fog surrounding it, manages to conjure up images of us having sex. Maybe it isn’t a big deal, maybe I could sleep with him like Kate’s suggesting and it could all stay in Lisbon, but then cold reality kicks in. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. I realise with a start I’m shouting and people are turning to stare. ‘It is a big deal. I can’t … I love Rob.’
‘All right, calm down!’ she says. ‘You don’t have to do anything but let me have some fun, won’t you? I deserve it.’
I can’t argue with that, and even if I could I don’t have a chance to as the taxi arrives. Kate piles in the back with Emanuel jumping quickly in behind her. Joaquim opens the passenger door for me and I get in, slumping unhappily against the door.
For the whole journey back as I listen to Kate laughing and kissing Emanuel I can feel my irritation building. She’s acting like a teenager. This isn’t the trip I signed up for. I want to go home. I want to see Rob and Marlow.
‘We’re here,’ I hear Kate say.
I stumble from the car, the ground shifting beneath my feet like a rocking deck, and fall against Joaquim who puts an arm around me to steady me.
‘Let’s get you to bed,’ he murmurs.
Chapter Five
Bleached white light scours my eyeballs. I wince. My head throbs as though an axe is embedded in my skull. I roll over, noting the fact I’m lying under the covers. How did I get here? Memories jostle through the blur, fragments from last night, no whole picture. We went out for dinner, then to a bar. There were two men. I vaguely remember the one I was talking to but I can’t recall his name. He had green eyes, dark hair. Kate brought them back with us. God, I was so drunk. How on earth did I get so drunk? Maybe it was the jet lag? But there isn’t a time difference so that doesn’t make sense.
I press a hand to my aching, fuzzy head. Oh my God, I feel sick; my stomach is bubbling. A jagged piece of memory rises suddenly to the surface. I threw up last night. I remember leaning over the toilet bowl, gagging, and I can still feel a chemical-like burn at the back of my throat. Was it the oysters? Is that what made me feel so wretchedly awful? Was it food poisoning as well as too much booze? Or maybe a combination? It felt like I’d been anaesthetised and I still feel sluggish, as though my head and my limbs are buried in thick tar.
The man was there though. I remember that. He held my hair as I heaved over the toilet. I remember feeling desperately humiliated that a stranger was watching. Where was Kate? I have a vague recollection of her shouting – or was she screaming? Or laughing? Why can’t I remember? I must have blacked out.
As I look around the bedroom I wonder again how I got there. Then it comes to me. Another fragment piercing through the fog. The man carried me to bed. I suddenly see his face, hovering over me as he laid me down. Asking me if I wanted him to take my clothes off.
Aghast, I throw back the covers. I’m wearing my dress. Feeling sick, I lurch upright and check I’m still wearing my underwear. I am. The movement makes me dizzy. Or perhaps it’s relief. I take stock. My throat is dry as sandpaper, my skull as fragile as a paper lantern. Any sudden move and I think it will tear. For a few moments I sit on the edge of the bed trying to dredge through my memories of the previous night, desperate to find some clues. Did I have sex with that man? The last thing I remember is him leaning over me. But then what happened? Why can’t I remember?
Are they still here? My bedroom door is closed. I crane my head to listen but it’s quiet. What time is it? I reach