Violet's eyes opened to find her head inside a giant conch shell, or at least that's what a folded pillow felt like over ringing ears and a throbbing brain. She might as well have been in some accident at sea, sprawled as she was over a bed like some poor thing battered by rocks and washed ashore, and a little sea-sick to boot. Her mind fought through nothingness trying to remember where she was or how she'd come to be here. Also, why was she not wearing her bra? Then she saw the Santa hat on the poster of the bed frame and was filled with instant regret, denial and the deepest most urgent need to be somewhere and someone else.
She tried to escape by shifting her weight evenly in careful movements. Ingrid, spread out diagonally on the other side of the large bed, was dead to the world after the post-adolescent slumber party that took place in the wee hours. Between her snoring and her harmonica like retainer, Violet didn't know how the girl had not choked to death on her own saliva. How she even remembered her retainer and managed to change into happy-frog pyjamas was another miracle, especially after all the leftover champagne and an entire bottle of Limoncello.
As Violet crept lightly, searching the bedroom floor for her purse, Ingrid's head shot up in brief and startling moment of consciousness. She eyeballed Violet through a keyhole squint, slurped, "Boys do suck," and passed out again.
In the living room of the apartment, Violet found Cheryl watching the morning news and nursing a cup of coffee.
"Caffeine?" she offered, though it was neither her coffee nor her apartment.
"I can't be here," Violet groaned. She laughed a little at herself, but was desperate for her shoes.
"Neither can I. I have to be at my other job in twenty minutes."
"I'm saying I can't be here because I'm your boss."
"You totally rock as a boss, by the way. Don't worry, I still respect you."
"Then where's my bra?"
"In the freezer."
"Are you kidding?" Violet turned the kitchen corner and retrieved her dignity.
"You fell asleep first," Cheryl said matter-of-factly.
"I'm thirty-two!"
"I'm twenty-two! So what? You said you didn't have any friends."
"I did? What else did I say?"
"Well, I wish you would have told me sooner about that Elsa chick so I could have spilled some wine on her coat like I did on that other cow's."
"What other...? Never mind. I can't hear any of this." Cheryl shrugged. "Thanks for driving me home, or here or wherever. You guys are really sweet, but no talking about this at work, right?"
"How about a raise?"
"Really? You know this brassiere is a boomerang right now."
Cheryl zipped her lips into a stupid grin.
To the hungover at work, Ed's usual shouting sounded like an air horn going off.
"Violet! Have you seen a roll of fifties around here?"
"Violet! Who booked a bar mitzvah and a stag on the same night?"
"Violet! What happened to all the aspirin?"
Two days later, while Ed was still shouting at what seemed a less brain shattering decibel, Violet imagined him subtitled in caps.
"Violet! Silver napkins: Do they or do they not make everyone's lap look fat?"
YOU ARE READING
Worth
ChickLitWhen an eccentric old neighbour dies and names Violet March in his will, she is even more surprised than his estranged and spoiled family. To make matters stranger, she learns that all must attend a pretend murder-mystery weekend for any to claim a...
