Free Little White Lies by Gemma Townley Page A

they must be talking about me. So Alistair told them everything, and they think it’s hysterical, do they?
    As I emerge at the top of the stairs, they stop talking quickly. Lucy looks at me and I’m convinced I can see pity on her face.
    “You all right, Natalie?”
    “Yeah. Fine. Going home,” I manage to say. I can feel my stomach gurgling and I don’t think I’ve got long before I hurl. That’s the problem with being the one in a couple who doesn’t get drunk, I think to myself, then smile at the thought that I can even blame my drunkenness on Pete. Oh, God, why didn’t I stop after the last double vodka?
    “You want me to get you a cab?” asks the bouncer. I can’t believe he’s pretending to be concerned when he’s just suggested getting CCTV so he can catch me on camera making a fool of myself, dancing and talking to my reflection in the mirror.
    “No. Short. Walk. Home.” Between each word I swallow furiously. My eyes are having trouble focusing.
    “Walk with her, Alistair,” suggests Lucy, but I shake my head—realizing too late that this is not a good thing to do when you are on the verge of being sick.
    “No. Really.”
    I do a sort of wave and walk off down the street, trying my best to walk in a straight line and failing dismally. Then as soon as I get to the next corner, I make a quick left and walk quickly to a rubbish bin where I throw up violently. Not so debonair and fabulous now, are you, Natalie Raglan? I think to myself sadly.
    Feeling like death, with watering eyes and a runny nose, I slowly stand up straight again and attempt to make my way back home. Except, I realize a few minutes later, I’m now walking in the wrong direction. I do a quick one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, but to my horror, I see Lucy and Alistair are standing at the corner looking at me. They must have seen everything.
    Humiliated, I try to ignore them, but they walk up beside me and take me firmly by each arm, walking me the two hundred yards to my flat. Alistair opens the door downstairs, and Lucy manages to get the key out of my bag for my front door.
    “I’m fine now,” I manage to say. “Really. Thank you. Please go now.”
    “Are you sure?” Lucy asks.
    “Absofuckinglutely,” I mutter as I fall face-first onto the bed.
    “Don’t talk in your sleep,” says Alistair, laughing, as they shut the door behind them.
     
    I must have passed out, because the next thing I know it’s three A.M. and I’m gasping for a drink of water. I stagger to the kitchen and pull a glass out of the cupboard, splashing water on my face before pouring it into the glass. As I gulp the water down, the evening’s events flood back into my head and I shudder with embarrassment. I can’t face my work colleagues or my neighbor ever again. I am a total joke. Alistair thinks I fancy him, and everyone now knows I was dancing in the loo.
    I walk into the sitting room and sit down on the sofa. In front of me is Cressida’s letter.
    “ ’S all your fault,” I say to the letter in a slurred voice, as if it were Cressida herself. “Hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have been dancing, or drinking . . .”
    Naturally the letter doesn’t reply. Actually, now I look at it, the red nail polish looks a bit like blood from here. Like I’ve wounded it. Like it’s bleeding.
    “I didn’t mean to cover you in nail polish, you know,” I say. “Wasn’t my fault. You know that, right?”
    I roll my eyes as I realize what I’m doing. I moved to London to lead a more exciting life. And here I am at three in the morning talking to a letter. Apologizing to it.
    Well, sod that. It’s a letter. Just a bloody letter. And if I want to open it, I bloody well will.
    Holding my breath, I reach for the envelope and run my finger underneath the flap, slowly ripping it open. A guilty pleasure seeps through me, like the feeling you get when you’ve just splurged on something too expensive and they’re wrapping it up in soft tissue paper.