Vodka Espresso

9. birthday

July, 2017

Ian had Murphy drive Ingrid back to the house, explaining to everyone else that she hadn't been feeling well. He'd intended to excuse her for the rest of the day, but she insisted to go to dinner that evening.

"If I sleep for a bit," she told Ian as he saw her off, "I'll be in perfect shape for dinner tonight."

"Sleep," he repeated, "don't drink."

She shook her head. "I won't. Here." She held out her flask to him. "Put this away. Don't....bin it, it means a lot to me, just put it somewhere safe where I can't reach it."

"Are you sure you don't want to just take the day off?" He peered at her with a concerned expression. "Feeling sick is really not the best way to spend your twenty-seventh."

She crossed her arms and shrunk away from him. "I normally take pride in how alcohol-tolerant I am, but to be completely honest with you...I have never had to handle so many responsibilities. It's stressing me out and full disclosure: I have a history of substance abuse."

His face darkened.

"But don't worry," she hurried to reassure him, "I've been clean for the past three years, except for the occasional joint. Which I've completely left behind in Berlin."

"We'll talk about this at home."

She didn't look up from her shoes. "Are you going to fire me?"

"On your birthday? I don't think so. Go on, now." He side-stepped her to pull the car door open. "Get some rest. I'll see you tonight if you feel up to it."

"I'll be there. Sober."

He smiled as he slammed the door shut and she watched him raise his hand to wave them off. Ingrid sighed, curling up in a corner of the backseat.

"I should have taken you straight to lunch," Murphy commented.

"Oh, shut it, Murph, this one's on me."

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "How are you?"

She coughed and sniffled. "Fucking peachy, mate." She sighed. "I'm okay. I just need some sleep."

Murphy stayed with her until he had to go and drive the guests to the restaurant. He watched TV in the living room while Ingrid frantically brushed her teeth in her bathroom. She took a hot bath, blow-dried her hair and set her alarm for half past six. That should have given her a solid two hours of sleep. Ian had told her he would try to postpone the dinner for at least half an hour.

Just before she tucked herself in, Agata messaged to ask if she could make it to the club after all. Ingrid said yes, but after eleven o'clock. Agata replied that they weren't getting there any sooner than that, anyway, and wished Ingrid happy birthday again. She had read some of the Facebook wishes, but hadn't found the time to reply to anything.

Ingrid spent the next hour tossing in her bed, on the edge of consciousness. She dreamed of things she couldn't remember when she woke up, but so vivid in her sleep that she couldn't rest properly. She dozed off for several minutes just before her alarm went off and she got up groaning. A wave of shame washed over her as she stumbled to her feet and recalled what had passed throughout the day.

Her first instinct was to reach for the flask on her nightstand that would numb her discomfort, but she clenched her empty fist mid-air.

"Right," she muttered to herself and headed for the bathroom.

She got to the restaurant ahead of everybody else, shortly before eight o'clock. Ian and their guests arrived not long after. They decried the traffic and agreed to go straight for the main course, skipping the starters.