Page 40 of The Taskmaster
ABIGAIL
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
I winced as my head pounded, and every inch of my body cried out in pain.
What the fuck had happened to me last night?
I had the mother of all headaches, and as I opened my eyes, squinting as the morning sun blinded me through the window, I frowned.
How did I manage to get to my bed?
The last thing I remembered was drinking my wine, scrolling through my phone and then... darkness.
I’d passed out.
None of it made sense, but at least I was in my own room.
I lay for a moment, listening to the quietness of my apartment. Then I sat up, groaning as the movement made my head throb and my brain swim, making me nauseous. I checked my alarm clock; it was still only five a.m., but I already felt like calling in sick at work. I had a feeling this bad head was going to last a while. Staying at home made sense. I’d be safer here.
I reached up to touch my head as it pulsed, and then moved my hand into my hair, groaning again when I felt how matted it was. For fuck’s sake, I needed to invest in a better conditioner. My hair was worse than ever. A total bird’s nest. But before showering, I needed a hit of caffeine to straighten me out.
I stood up and headed to my door, inhaling as a waft of sandalwood hit me. I’d bought an air freshener a few weeks ago, but it hadn’t smelt that good before. Maybe it was a grower and smelt better the longer you kept it. Lucky me.
I went into my living room, cursing the empty wine glass on the coffee table as I walked past it and headed into my kitchen. I put the kettle on, then turned, and that’s when I noticed something in the living room, on the opposite side of the wall, hidden behind my bookshelf.
I let the kettle hiss as it started to boil, and walked over to the bookshelf, crouching down to get a closer look at the white corner poking out.
Was that an envelope?
I slid it out from behind the bookshelf, and when I turned it over in my hand, I gasped. It was the photo of my dad and me on the day he’d gotten the all clear from the cancer ward. The photo I thought I’d lost. But I hadn’t. It was here. How it got here, I had no idea. Perhaps the wind from an open window had blown it off the shelf and behind here? Maybe I’d knocked it off when I was cleaning? But I didn’t care. It was here now. And I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.
I grabbed my phone off the coffee table and typed out a text to my dad. Seeing his face had made me want to reach out to him and check he was okay.
Me
Hey, Dad. Hope everything’s okay. I’ll pop over after work one of the days this week. I miss you.
I didn’t expect him to text back right away. He was probably still asleep, but messaging him made me feel better. Finding the photo gave me a little relief. Everything else in my life was falling apart, but I was happy for any small wins I could get.
I went back to the kitchen, made my coffee and then headed back into my bedroom to shower, hoping the hot water might ease my aching body and pounding head. Walking back in, the scent of sandalwood in the air seemed stronger now. I guessed I’d gotten used to it after sleeping in here all night, but coming back in from the living room, the scent had become more noticeable. It was delicious. A manly smell but not cheap or overpowering. It smelt like heaven. I’d need to buy another one of those air fresheners for when this one faded because that smell was addictive.
I showered, using a ridiculous amount of conditioner on my hair and teasing my fingers through the knots to smooth them out. Then I got dressed, and went back into the living room, taking my phone off the coffee table and scrolling through my contact list to find the number for work.
It started to ring, and I prayed it’d go straight to voicemail, but luck wasn’t on my side.
“Good morning. You’ve reached Kate in Human Resources. How can I help?”
“Hi, Kate, it’s Abigail Walters here. I’m so sorry but I won’t be able to make it in to work today. I’ve woken up with the flu. I feel terrible,” I said, putting on a sickly voice to add to the effect.
Why did calling in sick to work always make you feel sicker than you actually were?
“Oh no, Abi. I’m so sorry to hear that. It must be bad, you never call in sick,” she said, and she was right, which worked in my favour.
“I know. I hate to miss work, but I’m bedridden today. I feel so bad.”
