The Feature

XII

Day 2

You woke to the sound of two voices talking quietly, a door closing, a television being switched on. There was a headache settling in behind your eyes, a dryness in your mouth that only seemed to get worse as you sat up slightly, grimacing at the distinctive pub smell still clinging to your clothes.

You flinched slightly as you felt something brush against your leg, looking down with puffy, itchy eyes to see Nick and Lacy's cat burrowing a space for himself beside you on the already cramped couch.

"Piss off," you croaked.

"How dare you talk to Schmoops like that," said Lacy with a sarcastic gasp.

You didn't realise she was there, turning your head in surprise to see her sitting on the other couch. She was wrapped in a thick, fluffy dressing gown, hair tied up, white sheet mask over her face.

"You look like Hannibal Lecter," you said.

"And in about five minutes, I'll have glowing, soft skin."

You rolled your eyes, forcing yourself to sit up a little further. The cat gave a soft trill as you moved, stretching himself out before curling up at your feet.

"Lace, your cat's vibrating."

"He's purring," she laughed.

"Does it have to be so loud?"

"I think that's probably the hangover talking..."

Hangover. God, that's why you felt so rough; why you'd just woken up on your friend's couch with a splitting headache, why you could still taste tequila on the back of your sandpaper tongue. You tried to remember how you'd ended up there, but memories of the night before were murky and fragmented, like trying to watch yourself back on a damaged videotape.

You looked over at Lacy again, a feeling of regret washing over you that you couldn't quite place. But you had an inkling.

"How much did I blab last night?"

"A fair bit," she replied.

You sat up fully.

"I mean," she continued, keeping her tone light. "I now know the intimate details of one of my favourite actors' penises, which I never thought I'd be able to say-"

You interrupted her with a loud, mortified groan, dropping your face into your hands.

"And from the sounds of it, he's a very... thorough lover-"

"Oh my god!" you shouted, the sound muffled by your palms.

"Quinn." She laughed softly. "You know we're not going to say anything."

You glanced up at her. Of course they wouldn't say anything; in some ways, you trusted them more than you trusted yourself. But that wasn't the point. The point was that you'd told them in the first place.

The living room door opened and Nick walked in. He was in his pyjamas carrying two steaming mugs of tea, a grin spreading across his face as he laid eyes on you.

"There she is," he said chirpily. "The future Mrs Sherlock Holmes."

"Not funny."

"Or will you be Doctor and Mrs Strange?"

"Not. Funny," you repeated more sternly.

"I'm just winding you up," he said with a laugh, handing you one of the mugs. "How are you feeling now after sleeping on it?"

"How am I feeling about what?"

"About what we talked about last night...?"

"Nick, I have no memory of what we talked about last night."