Free Getting Over It by Anna Maxted

Don’t care, wanna fag. Chunky glass after glass of Cuervo Gold tequila. Screechy, slurry, blurry talk with Tina. Twenty to eleven. Staggering, giggling, swaying, to the loo. Dazed, smudgy mascara, jerky check in mirror, scrunchy, clumsy, puffing up, limp hair. Lurching, dizzy, teary, back to Tina. Eleven-thirty. Feel ill. Whiny where is he the fucker bastard git wanking wanker fuck more tequila tastes gross fags making me dizzy don’t care want more want more wasted Tina need more tequila my purse take it what who lemme alone tired wanna lie down tom tom Tom Tom! flucking buddy late you tossing tosser tissing posspot… .
    I wake up. I feel sharply awake. I am lying in my bed. The ceiling is in clear focus. But something isn’t right. “Helen?” says a male voice. I emit an involuntary whimper and stare in terror at Tom who is sitting, scruffy, fully clothed, on a chair in the middle of my bedroom debris. He looks as if he is trying to stifle a grin. “How are you?” he drawls.
    I realize several things at once. I am wearing a t-shirt and nothing else. I can’t recall what happened last night. There is a curious absence of head pain. But I think it was bad. Very bad indeed. “W-what? How?” I croak. As I use my voice for the first time, I realize my throat is sandpaper and my chest feels at least one size too small. Tom coughs. I suspect he’s playing for time. “Tina undressed you—you had sick on your top. She’s asleep in the living room.” He stops.
    “What happened?” I whisper.
    Tom looks sheepish. “I was on my way and there was an emergency.” His voice rises as if he’s asking a question. “Emergency op. It was bad timing. I called the flat to say I’d be late, but you’d already left. I’m so sorry. It’s kind of my fault.”
    What is his fault? He’s talking in code. He sees my fearful expression and grins again. “I haven’t seen you naked, if that’s what you’re worried about. Me and Luke stayed outside while Tina did the business. You were impressively plastered.” I manage a nod. I don’t dare speak.
    Tom shifts to his feet. “I’ve got to go to work but I’ll call you later.” He strides over, kisses me once, on the forehead, then walks out, softly shutting the door behind him. I wait until I hear the front door shut, leap out of bed, run into the hallway, remember I’m knickerless, run back into my room, scrabble through the wreckage for my tracksuit bottoms, yank them on, run into the living room, shake Tina awake, and wheeze in a—painful but aurally pleasing—husk, “Shit shit shit, what happened, now now now!” Tina struggles upright, groans, squeezes the bridge of her nose and screws up her face, growls, “Get me an Advil out of my bag,” and swallows two of them dry. Then, she tells me.
    “Helen, you big tit. You made a right arse of yourself. He was late, but it wasn’t his fault. He’d tried to ring but he didn’t have your mobile. I think he might’ve even called the bar but they’re too pissy to take messages. He came straight from doing the op. I think it was an Alsatian. This Alsatian escaped from its owner, and ran into the road, and this car, I think it was a BMW, a green one, Three series, fuel injection, and—what? Okay, okay. Well, he got there just before twelve and we were both wasted, but you, you were something special. You’d been on the tequilas, neat tequila all night. You were storming! I’ve never seen you that bad. I was on the bubbly, I was way behind you. You don’t even like tequila! But no, it had to be tequila. You were a right stroppy cow. And you pinched all of my fags. Anyway. So Tom turns up and, excuse me, but that man is fit. And you’re about comatose. You were rude to him, actually. Called him a tosspot, except you said it teapot, so maybe he didn’t realize. You were jawing on and on and on about how you’re sick of wimpy men and you can’t stand it and this always happens to you and you just want a bloke who