The hangover smashed into him like a polluted ocean wave.
‘I’m dying!’ he wailed.
The pounding headache, the intense nausea – this was worse than his forced genetic conversion! That was probably an exaggeration but now Alan finally understood how his fellow workers at GFS sometimes felt when they stumbled into work complaining of feeling like “death warmed up”.
‘Ahh, is my little pussycat feeling unwell?’ A long slender arm fell languidly over his thin hairless chest. Alan opened his eyes, the hangover momentarily forgotten.
He was lying on a king-sized bed. Black satin sheets lay tangled up near his feet. He squinted and recognized his companion: a tall, deeply tanned escort girl, one that Warner had directed his way at some point during the night after he’d tried, rather clumsily, to proposition her. God, he’d been hammered! The hangover reappeared from stage-right.
‘’Scuze, thank you.’ Alan gingerly removed the arm and attempted to sit up. He was going to throw up! He quickly stood and raced out of the bedroom only to find himself in an open-plan lounge/kitchen area in which sat several sophisticated chattering-class types, all engaged in a murmuring conversation. One of the group was Warner, the others were vaguely recognizable from the previous night, though he could not remember any names.
Alan stood before the group, naked, still preoccupied with finding a bathroom. He barely had seconds… Warner shook her head and silently indicated a closed door opposite. He charged into the bathroom and promptly projectile vomited, mostly into the toilet bowl.
This eventually helped, and once the peristaltic waves had finally subsided Alan at last felt able to function. He gave himself a quick wash, and the bathroom a wipe down with toilet roll. He then wrapped a large white towel around his middle and returned to the main communal room.
The sophisticates regarded him with varying expressions of pity and disgust. Alan just gawped at them. He’d been having a fun time with this crowd only a few hours earlier but right now they felt like strangers. He had nothing whatsoever to say to any of them, including Warner.
‘How are you feeling, Alan?’ asked Warner, not apparently very amused.
‘Rough,’ growled Alan. He then began to cough violently and felt new waves of nausea take hold.
One of Warner’s group stood: ‘I think it’s time I split, Helen. Thanks for the hospitality and the…’ he gave Alan the once-over, ‘…entertainment.’
The others, with the exception of Warner, laughed at this as they too made their excuses to leave. Warm farewells and much air-kissing followed, and in due course Alan found himself alone in the room with Warner.
‘What do you want?’ enquired Warner, ‘black coffee or soluble paracetamol?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Alan, perching himself on a stool in the kitchen, ‘I haven’t embarrassed you have I?’
‘Oh, good Lord no! Whatever gave you that impression!?’ Warner was annoyed. To hell with her.
‘Where’s that paracetamol!?’ Alan demanded. He really felt sick again.
Forty-five minutes later, Alan, now lying on one of Warner’s sofas, decided he was well enough to get dressed.
‘I should put some clothes on,’ he declared.
‘Only if you feel ready, Alan,’ replied Warner, eyes fixed on the BBC’s news channel.
Alan’s escort joined them in the lounge. She kissed Alan on the lips and sat down next to him and began playing with his hair.
‘Is she still on the clock?’ asked Alan.
The woman removed her hand and shot Alan an enraged look.
‘Excuse me!!??’ she screamed.
‘Right, that’s it! Get out!’ Warner shrieked.
Alan thought Warner was talking to the woman but her steely eyes were fixed on him.
‘Excuse me!!??’ Alan exclaimed, trying to channel some of the woman’s outrage and direct it at Warner.
‘You heard me, get out!’
Alan held his ground for a second or two but the fury directed at him forced a retreat. He returned to the bedroom and began to dress; he soon reappeared in the lounge.
‘I didn’t mean to cause any offence!’ he offered, but both women ignored him.
As Alan headed for the front door, Warner finally piped up: ‘Head for GFS, I’ll contact you if-and-when I need you.’ She did not look up from the TV.
‘Yep,’ said Alan. He departed Warner’s luxury Mayfair apartment and staggered towards Oxford Street. It was another warm cloudless day in London.