Page 39 of Enemies to Lovers

I think we might be heading for some sort of truce …

Nothing. Hope doesn’t text back. She’s probably too busy having a fantastic time, and I can’t fault her for that.

By 9 p.m. I feel pretty shattered. I’m kind of bummed they’re all still out. Part of me assumed they wouldn’t take too long, because they wouldn’t want to be out without me. Apparently that isn’t so. I suppose I’ll go to bed, then, try to fall asleep in the bedroom before Jamie gets home …

I must have drifted off, because it startles me when I hear voices downstairs. They’re back.

‘Flo?’ It’s Kate, in the stairwell. ‘Are you there?’

‘Hello?’ I say, right as there’s an almighty crash. I head down and round the corner to see Dad swaying by the kitchen table, an assortment of fruit at his feet, from the broken fruit bowl that is also there.

‘Ooooops!’ he giggles – yes,giggles– as he catches sight of me.

‘Whoa,’ I say. ‘You guys seem … happy.’

Alex and Laurie are laughing hysterically at Dad’s clumsiness, drunk as he is. My eyes flicker to Jamie: he’s blinking a lot and his eyes are unfocused. He’s pissed as well.

‘They had a competition,’ Kate explains, ducking down to pick up Dad’s mess. ‘They’ve been on every possible after-dinner drink this place has. Tsikoudia, mastika, ouzo, tentura …’

Laurie waves a finger as Kate puts the broken fruit bowl in pieces on the table, and the fruit that’s rolling everywhere in a pile at the side of the sink.

‘And tsipouro,’ Laurie adds cheerfully.

They all look green, and very unsteady on their feet. I don’t know what else to do except make some black coffee and sort out glasses of water. It’s kind of funny that they’ve out-drunk one another in this way – although drunk people aren’t my favourite. In my undergrad years I learned quickly that the people who got most blotto weren’t the fun ones but the ones with sadness underneath their smiles. Happy people generally don’t get arseholed, is my working theory.

‘Drink this,’ I say, handing out various liquids. ‘None of you can go to bed as you are. You need to sober up a bit – you’ll choke on your own sick otherwise.’

Kate snort-laughs, shaking her head like she can’t believe the state of them.

‘You didn’t want to join them?’ I ask.

She tuts. ‘I can’t,’ she replies, and her eyes flicker down to her stomach, where she’s resting a hand. The penny drops for me and Mum at exactly the same moment.

‘You’re pregnant?’ we scream in unison, and she nods.

‘Only eight weeks. We just found out …’

‘I’m going to be an auntie!’ I cry, and Mum and I dance around Kate, laughing and smiling and thrilled.

I genuinely couldn’t be happier for her – and for Laurie, who now has his head resting on his hands on the table, like he might fall asleep. No wonder he’s been acting like a child this holiday; soon he’ll be a dad and he’ll have to start being the grown-up. The thought makes me smile. He has no idea what’s coming. I cannotwaitto see it.

Mum – equally sober as Kate – sits beside her and starts gabbling about when she was pregnant with Laurie and what it was like: the cravings, how her body changed, how the last month of it all sent her crazy with the waiting, but she missed being pregnant almost right away.

‘Excuse me,’ Jamie mutters, getting up and spinning round to the kitchen sink, where he promptly throws up with a loud groan – loud enough to jerk Laurie upright.

We watch in horror as he throws up again, and then once more for good measure. I have to look away and will myself not to gag at the sound it makes. I hate vomit – but then I imagine everybody does. I enjoy anyopportunity to see Jamie at his less-than-best, but this is a bit too much. He flicks on the tap to wash it away and then runs his face underneath to wash himself. I’m relieved there are no dishes on the drying rack. I’m going to bleach the hell out of that sink in a minute. Small mercies, though – I doubt he’d have made it to the bathroom. This is so gross.

After a little more dry-retching, Jamie’s stomach is empty and he leans against the worktop to catch his breath. I take the opportunity to pull out the bleach and anti-bac spray, de-germing everything that could possibly be germy from stray flecks of vomit.

‘Flo,’ Mum says, ‘take him up. I think he’ll be all right for bed after that. I’ll clean up.’

‘Jamie,’ I say, walking over to him. It’s like he can’t hear me – he doesn’t move. ‘Jamie?’

I reach out a hand to his back, so finally he looks at me.

‘Flo,’ he replies, openly happy to see me, only just realising I’m there. Then a shadow crosses his face, and his tone darkens. ‘You didn’t come to dinner,’ he goes on. ‘You went out withhiminstead, didn’t you?’

I look at him, at the questions etched into his features, and let his words hit me. But then just as quickly I remember we’re not alone. I make a show of looping his arm over my shoulder and say, ‘Left you? I left everyone! And look what’s happened – you’re all drunk as skunks.’

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