The Cure

Chapter 29

Lola awoke with a start. Her heart was thumping in her throat, and she turned over on her damp sheets, in time to throw up bile over the side of the bed. Her mind was white-hot behind her eyes, and she squeezed the bridge of her nose as the retching subsided.

It had been a hell of a few days.

A hectic hoard, Jared and Frieda and Jules and a few others, had met her at the foot of her building when she returned that afternoon; they had started early, eager for happy-hour hauls, half price Havana.

She had only been eager to drown every last click of the oxygen machine that echoed in her ears, rinse herself of the stale smell of the unwell.

Her mum had visibly improved, though, under the nurses' happy hands.

Lola had reminded herself of that as she took a draught of discount Jack and Coke, to keep her darkness at bay.

The agency had sent a nurse out the very next day, and she was incredibly young-looking, and Lola had watched her doubtfully for the first hour, the peroxide ponytail swinging, her large arms wobbling as she pulled her mother upright with what Lola thought more force than was necessary.

But Mrs. Wells seemed happy enough, and the nurse seemed to know what food to bring that would tempt her to eat, and an equally chipper male team member arrived to instal handrails and emergency pull-cords in her bathroom and next to her new medical bed.

Lola had cried silently for twenty minutes against the ceramic of the toilet, having thrown up her lunch, before leaving her mother in their capable care.

Jared had been uncharacteristically affectionate, bringing her far too many drinks, sliding his palm along her thigh as he chattered animatedly.

When he left to play darts with the rest of the boys, he pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth; Lola stole a doubtful glance at Frieda. The tiny brunette grinned back.

'It was kind of – shit, you know?' Frieda had whispered to her conspiratorially by way of explanation. 'I dunno, we just didn't click.'

'You seemed to get on well.'

'Well, yeah. But when the sex is bad, the sex is bad.'

'The sex was bad?' Lola had repeated, surprised.

'Wasn't it for you?' Frieda was giggling, and Lola had shrugged, put out that a kid like Frieda had balled up and chucked Jared that easily for being a bad fuck; Lola swallowed her embarrassment, wondering why she had lolloped through two years of their arrangement without one orgasm.

For comfort.

In the hope of something more that never came.

'It was good.' She defended her friend valiantly. Frieda pursed her lips doubtfully.

'Guess we just didn't click, then.'

'Guess not.' They finished their drinks in uncomfortable silence and headed to Jules' flat, to consume flaming shots of absinthe, the hot sugar cubes sizzling and burning; a line or two off the back of a DVD case; only sleeping where she dropped to wake up an hour later, to the sound of beers being cracked open again. A hair of the dog had been the only thing strong enough to deal with that shit.

No, put off the inevitable. She groaned, her head falling back against the mattress, staring at the puddle of vomit splashed over her latest Rolling Stone copy.

What time was it? When had she last eaten?

She had been too out of it to even think of eating, yesterday; oh, God, yesterday.

She groaned again, squeezing her eyes shut, her heart lurching, thrilling despite herself. She had returned in the middle of the day, still head-spinningly high, and shuffled about the flat in a still-drunk stupor until Nate came home.

Had she really fallen onto her knees in front of him like that?

And what he had said.

What she had said. Those stoic and stubborn refusals when he offered intimacy; she bit her lip. It seemed nonsensical now, an exceptional feat of exertion, proof of her strength, but for what?

He'd be a decent replacement for Jared – no, better, if it was always like how she remembered – but there was something stopping her. She tried on the excuses for size, the possibilities flickering painfully through her aching mind.

Too sweet, too kind: she'd be bored in a matter of weeks. Surely.

Not at all her type: add a few decent tattoos and grow a beard out, then maybe.

The sex? – that was out of the question. She hummed, remembering. That couldn't ever be the problem.

No – even his tidiness, his organisation, his simplicity dwindled into insignificance against the way his shoulders looked in his knitted jumpers, and the way his hair fell into his eyes, and God, the smile creasing his cheek, and the perfect teeth; she hummed again, agonised.

As she pondered lazily, her stomach gnawing with hunger, her limbs useless beneath the bedclothes, she became aware of the sound of knocking; she sat up, and regretted it immediately, her head pounding.

She couldn't tell if it had been a background sound thrust into insignificance against her waves of nausea and emotion; if the sharp rapping had been what had woken her up in the first place, or the visitor had just arrived.

When the spinning ache in her mind subsided slightly, she hauled herself out of bed, slipping into a pair of pyjama shorts and a cropped jumper.

The loft had never been so spacious, or the walk across it so long; she dragged her feet as if wading through water, her limbs aching, and opened the door.