Page 55 of Chocolate Cake for Breakfast
Feeling sick, I stop by reception and tell Paulinethat I’m not feeling well and will have to go home.
I know I’m leaving the hotel in the lurch, but I feel surethey’ll cope. Lila will have to do a shift herself! It’s small comfort, though,in the wake of her horribly embarrassing stunt. She knew exactly what she wasdoing, reading my story out loud for everyone to hear, especially Logan. And asfor me, I’m completely stunned.
How did I not realise that the story I was writing wasabout Logan and me?
I shake my head. Lorcan and Logan. Marla and Martha. Even thenames are virtually the same! But I didn’t even realise I was thinking of Loganwhen I started writing about my hero, Lorcan! So basically, I’ve written a lovestory to Logan and now everyone’s going to know about my pathetic crush.
It’s all so humiliating – especially following so swiftly onthe heels of that other butt-clenching incident, when I lunged at Logan on hissofa this morning and snogged him.
Out at the car, I scrabble in my bag for my migraine pillsand choke one down without water in my haste. I only hope I’ve taken it intime.
But by the time I arrive home, I already know I’m in for afull-blown attack. My right temple is being drilled mercilessly and my heartsinks, knowing this could go on for days. All I can do is draw the curtains,get undressed and crawl into bed.
I lie there, battered by the constant, excruciating pain, andcowering from the light that makes it all a hundred times worse...
*****
It’s a bad one. I’m in hell for nearly two days, trying tosleep through it, but waking every few hours to the same hammering in my headand the race to the bathroom.
At last, on the third day, I wake up and realise it’spassed.
The relief is enormous. I feel like I always do once anattack is over. Light-headed and fragile – but so happy, like anything ispossible now that the pain has stopped. (The ecstasy doesn’t last long, sadly.)
I get up slowly and go down to the kitchen, and Dad gets up fromthe table, where he’s having breakfast, and insists I sit down while he makesme my recovery food: a boiled egg, toast and a cup of milky tea with a spoonfulof sugar.
It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted (it always is) and Isavour it.
I’ve stopped asking Dad if he’s had the results of his testsyet. I know he’ll tell me when he knows.
‘I wish I could stay a bit longer but I need to go,’ he saysnow, shrugging on his jacket.
‘The auditors still in?’
‘Erm... yes. Yes. The auditors,’ he says,snatching up his briefcase and heading for the door. ‘See you later, love. Takeit easy,’ he calls. And then he’s gone.
*****
I do as Dad says and lie on the sofa for the rest of themorning, catching up with the soaps I’ve missed over the past few days.
I’m just trying to decide if I can stomach some soup forlunch when I hear a car drawing up outside. Going to the window, my heart leapsin alarm.
Logan.
Oh, bugger. What’shedoing here?
I charge back upstairs and grab the first thing that comesto hand from the wardrobe – a pair of jeans and a pretty pale pink T-shirt Iforgot I had. I pull a comb through my tangled hair, then at the ring of thefront doorbell, I run back downstairs. I’ve forgotten my socks so I push myfeet back into my oversize brown plush moose slippers, complete with antlers. Dadbought them for me one Christmas years ago and they’re surprisingly comfy.
At least they break the ice when I answer the door to Logan.
‘Hi,’ he says, his eyes travelling south. ‘Nice slippers.’
‘Thank you. Yes. They’re... um...rather a-moose-ing, aren’t they?’
He nods. ‘Very amusing. What do moose eat for breakfast?’
I grin. ‘I don’t know. Whatdomoose eat forbreakfast?’
‘Moose-li.’ He has the grace to look embarrassed by his own badjoke.
