Meet Clara Andrews: A totally vacuous girl with a hangover...

Meet Clara Andrews

by Lacey London

Copyright © 2014 by S Woodhead
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Published in the UK.

There is absolutely no way I can go into work today. How much did I drink last night? Oh my God, my head hurts! I try to peel my eyelids back, fighting against the clumps of mascara and last night’s smudged eyeliner. The bright morning sun blares through the blinds, hitting me like the express train to London. Yanking the covers back up over my head to avoid being assaulted by the summer rays, I discover I am still in last night’s outfit. The gold, sequin bodycon dress that last night l was convinced screamed sparkle and champagne, now whimpers cheap cava, with the faint odour of tequila slammers. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I never learn? I am twenty seven for God’s sake, not seventeen! A quick glance at my newly acquired Michael Kors watch tells me that it is 8.35. I am going to be so bloody late. Again.

I lay still for a minute, thinking of any excuse that I haven’t already used to wangle the day off. Mumps? Nope, used that one. Gastroenteritis? Flu? Extreme allergic reaction? No, I’m pretty sure they’ve all been used in recent months too. Also, I don’t think calling in sick the morning after a works night out would go down too well. Whose bright idea was it to have a ‘team building’ drinking session on a Wednesday night anyway? Without prior warning, I am violently snapped out of my brain storm by the screeching of my mobile phone. Has it always been that loud? I snatch it up from the floor beside me, only to discover that this isn’t my first caller of the day. My display happily flashes seven missed calls back at me. Unfortunately, they are all from the same number, the number I least wanted to see. Work. I hastily reject the call, typing out a quick message to my manager that yes, I am alive and yes, I am on my way.

I didn’t even need to speak to Marc to know what he was calling for. I had worked with Marc for over five years now and could read him like a book. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fantastic being BFF’s with the boss, but sometimes he can be a right pain in the ass. My phone beeps annoyingly back at me.

OK.

One word texts are never good.

I spin my legs round to the edge of the bed, wincing in pain as I push myself up onto my feet. Never again am I wearing heels, I vow. My once ever so pretty nude, satin clutch bag is now covered in beer splodges and what I can only assume are the remnants of a dodgy kebab. Stay classy, Clara. Stay classy. I stumble into the bathroom and gasp at my reflection. I honestly don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I look somewhere between homeless heroin addict and Vegas drag act. I’m edging more towards the homeless heroin addict.

Dragging my dress over my head and shedding my underwear, I shove a toothbrush into my mouth and turn on the shower. Stepping into the cubicle is bitter sweet. However refreshing it is to wash away the remnants of the night before, the thought of having to get dressed and presentable for work is more my than my throbbing head can handle right now.

After scrubbing away all traces of congealed cosmetics, hairspray and fake tan, I wrap myself in my fluffy M&S bath robe and stumble back to the bedroom. Wiggling my way into a black pencil dress and trusty Donna Karen flats, I turn my attention to the mirror. Grabbing my salt spray and Touche Eclat, I try frantically to breathe some life back into my hung-over shell.

Fifteen minutes and a quick spray of Armani Diamonds later, I am ready to face the world. Armed with my stunning Cavalli handbag and aviator sunnies, I grab my car keys and phone and head to the door.

The drive to the office is pretty uneventful, given that I had missed the morning rush hour I am there in record time, albeit half an hour late. I jump into the lift and jab miserably at the shiny number seven, trying desperately to ignore the depressing nausea radiating throughout my body. Once the doors finally ping open, I make a bee line for the coffee machine.  As I watch the murky, brown liquid splash down into the paper cup, I make a promise to myself that never again will an alcoholic beverage pass my lips. It can’t be that hard, I mean loads of people are tee-total aren’t they? Maybe I’ll even go vegan, do the whole bohemian thing.

I clutch my poor excuse for a coffee tightly and head over to my desk. Dropping my handbag down on the floor and collapsing into my seat, I scan my drawers for some pain killers. Nurofen successfully swallowed, I switch on my computer and load up my emails.

Don’t get me wrong; when I am not feeling like a pair of crocs, I absolutely adore my job. Working for Suave is a dream come true. I had always wanted to work in fashion, so landing the job when I was just twenty two was beyond amazing. Over the past five years, I have worked my way up from making the coffee and filing invoices, to being a newly promoted junior designer. Seeing my designs brought to life from paper to production line gives me feelings of utter utopia. From wedges and peep-toes to cowboy boots and mules – shoes are my porn. They are my addiction, apart from flatforms. Flatforms should not be seen on anyone. Go high or go home.

I look up from my computer to hear a barrage of laughter and chatter falling through the office doors. I can’t help but smile as I see Lianna, phone to ear, clutching a Starbucks, heading my way. Even on 3 hours sleep, Lianna is still a ball of smiles and hyperactivity. I grin to myself as I watch my lovely best friend make her way over to my desk, almost tripping over her own two feet numerous times in the process. By her own admission, Lianna had always been a clumsy oaf. She blames it on being a total right brained thinker. I blame it on her skyscraper pins and ridiculous size eight feet.

‘Hey!’ Lianna exclaims, flashing me a huge grin as she sits down on the edge of my desk.

‘Here, take this.’ I snatch the hot, creamy coffee gratefully, allowing the heat to soothe my sore head.

‘How are you so happy this morning? I feel like I have been run over. Thanks for the coffee by the way. I knew there was a reason why you are my favourite human.’

‘No problem. Lunch later?’ She asks as she jumps to her feet.

‘Sure,’ I grumble, turning back to my computer.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Lianna works her way through the MDF jungle of desks, totally oblivious to the many admiring glances she acquires on the way.  I suddenly have a flash back to last night, Lianna sashaying across the dance floor, margarita in hand, batting away the paws of the many eager suitors, each one desperate for a meagre second of eye contact. I have a fuzzy vision of us dancing and laughing hysterically. Only it’s not just our high pitched squeals I’m recalling, it’s a deep, low laugh, along with the alluring, musky scent of men’s aftershave. Weird. Where did that come from?

A quick glance at my desk clock reminds me that I am already way behind with my days work. I allow myself a quick stretch, let out a little groan, a big sigh and pull up my drafts of our new winter line.  Something tells me today is going to be a very long day.

The morning flies by surprisingly quickly, considering my fragile state of body and mind. Almost unbelievably, I make it to 1.30 without giving in to my increasing need to vomit or fall into a delayed, tequila infused coma. I heave myself up from my desk, tugging my beloved handbag up onto my aching shoulders and slope off to the toilets.

Strangely, I haven’t seen or heard a thing from Marc since his many missed calls this morning. Marc knows full well how my hangovers turn out. Over the years, we have had many evenings turn from a quick cocktail straight from the office, to crawling home in the early hours complete with chicken kebab and carry out bottle of house red. It has become something of a morning after tradition that Marc will call me repeatedly, until he is satisfied I am back in the world of the living.

Marc Stroker and I have what you might call a love, hate relationship. I knew from my first day here at Suave that Marc and I would get along. It didn’t take us long to discover we shared a love of Rioja, Dexter and all things Mexican. With him being my boss however, things can sometimes get a little heated. I must admit though, it is impossible to stay mad at Marc for long. With his perfectly coifed, chocolate comb over and black rimmed Ray Bans, he looks every inch the womanizing conservative gentleman that he is very proud of being.

I haven’t so much as glanced at my reflection since I left the house. So, it is no surprise that I do not like what I am confronted with, when I finally come face to face with myself in all my hung-over glory. My normally big, brunette, bouncy curls lie frizzy and flat against my dried out skin. The copious amounts of Touche Eclat used this morning have done very little in disguising the obvious dark circles cradling my sunken baby blues. I hastily grab my make up case and begin to attack myself viscously with as much blusher, eyeliner and highlighter I can get away with without looking like an extra from Jersey Shore.

Once satisfied that I look relatively alive and breathing, I flip open my phone to a text from Lianna.

Bistro? xxx

I snap my phone closed shaking my head. How she can even consider entering a premises that serves alcohol I do not know. Lianna’s ability to down six tequila slammers and awake ready to climb Everest, I will never understand. Our alcohol tolerances aren’t the only thing that separates me from Lianna. Physically, we could not be more different.  Lianna’s long, slender silhouette and poker straight, blonde hair make a stark difference to my wild, dark curls and 5’3 size twelve frame.

Lianna has the stereotypical, statuesque model looks; it’s a total mystery how she manages to eat as much as she does. I often watch her demolish a burger and fries in envy, whilst I push a salad miserably around my plate. I on the other hand, only have to glance at a McDonalds for my cellulite to shudder. I lean against the sink, pondering about the fairness of life and why bad things happen to good people. I mean, what have I ever done to deserve cellulite? I am brought back down to Earth by the vibrating of my mobile.

WELL!!?? Xxx

She never has had any patience that girl.

Fine.

I hit send and snap my phone shut. Giving myself one last glance in the mirror, I head for the door.

I approach the Bistro with an air of caution, praying to the universe that not even so much as a sniff of alcohol will come my way. No such luck, the distinct odour of Desperados hits me the minute I step over the threshold. A large group of men are being unforgivably loud for two in the afternoon and judging by the rancid scent cloud of tequila and lager hanging over them, they have been here a while. I push my way through the sea of chinos and checked shirts, holding my breath as I go. My eyes scan the monochrome restaurant in search of Lianna.

The Bistro really is a cool place to eat. Everything is black and white, apart from the pillar box red menu placed on every table. The plush leather booths are filled with chit chat and the sing song chimes of glasses being clinked together. Don’t get me wrong, usually I am the first to order a cheeky prosecco with my prawn and avocado wrap, today however, I would rather stick pins in my eyes. I finally pick out Lianna, huddled up towards the back of the restaurant studying her menu, whilst sipping on what looks suspiciously like a G&T. My God Li, how do you do it?

‘Is that a G&T?’ I ask in revulsion, collapsing down onto the seat.

‘Hair of the dog, want one?’

‘Absolutely no chance,’ I reply, screwing my nose up.

I pick up the menu and scan my eyes across the gourmet dishes, trying to find something that doesn’t make my stomach churn with dread.

‘I think I’ll just go for the triple cooked chips. Maybe they will soak up any alcohol that is still swishing around in there. I honestly don’t think I could face anything else.’

‘Seriously? You’re such a baby with hangovers, Clara. Last night was totally worth it though. I had such a good time. Did you see Marc with Gina from accountants? That boy has no shame. I’m going for the gastro burger with curly fries. I’m absolutely starving.’

My eyes flit down the menu until they land on gastro burger. Succulent steak burger, smoked bacon, garlic mayo, sliced gherkins..... I shudder in disgust. I could really do with being back in my bed right now. The thought of dozing in a Jo Malone bubble bath, before crawling under my huge king size duvet is the only thing getting me through today.

‘Last night is pretty much a blur to be honest. All I know is that there was tequila and lots of it, so I would rather forget the rest if it’s all the same with you.’

We place our orders with the immaculately presented waitress and gladly accept some water for the table. As I listen to Lianna, filling me in on her morning with the client from hell, I sip my water tepidly. The second it hits my stomach I am suddenly questioning my decision to order a bowl full of greasy chips. Trying to ignore the growing sickness in my stomach, I rub my temples gently, silently cursing the loud lager louts in the bar into oblivion.

Some people have zero consideration for others. Seriously, who gets hammered in the afternoon in a place full of corporate working lunches? There has to be at least twenty of them and to say they are a little on the loud side would be putting it nicely. I notice they are all at least in their late twenties. A little old one might think to be acting like hormone raged teenagers at a school disco. Who wears checked shirts and chinos these days anyway? It’s 2014 for crying out loud.

‘Gastro burger?’

The pristine waitress is back, holding out a monster of a burger and a stack of golden curly fries, complete with a massive pot of chunky coleslaw.

‘Yes! That would be mine,’ Lianna accepts the slate plate greedily, clapping her hands in joy.

I have honestly never known anybody get as excited about food as Lianna. The waitress presents me with an oversized bowl of golden cuts of potato and I eye it up dubiously. I respond with a polite smile and a small nod, afraid to say anything in case the sickness overpowers me and makes a break for freedom. Taking a deep breath, I begin to nibble on a crispy corner of a sunny chip. The texture of the food in my mouth is horrible. How can something so natural and normally so yummy fill me with contempt? Looking over at Lianna, happily tucking into her ridiculous burger, I push my bowl to the side.

‘Here, have these if you want them. I really can’t face them.’ I hand over the bowl and watch in disgust as she slathers them in garlic mayonnaise.

‘Do you want some Pepto Bismol? It will make you feel better, I swear by it.’ Lianna reaches into her battered, leather satchel and produces a teeny bottle of the prominent pink liquid.

I take the medicine and give it a good shake, momentarily mesmerised by the nasty, chalky concoction. I detest Pepto Bismol and have never been convinced of its supernatural powers, but with the way I am feeling right now, I am willing to give it a go. I accept a dessert spoon from Li and pour the milky fluid out. God, I hate taking medicine. Eww! It tastes revolting! As I attempt to force the practically neon sludge down my throat, I begin to heave uncontrollably. Slamming down the spoon, I clutch my hands to my face and run straight towards the toilets. Pushing my way through the heavy double doors, I throw myself into a cubicle and slam the door behind me.

Flushing the toilet and tucking my hair behind my ears, I unlock the door and run my wrists under the tap. I think I need to go home, I decide as I look at my bedraggled, post vomit state. Pulling a hair tie from around my wrist, I twist my hair into something that can only resemble a bird’s nest. Taking my mobile from my back pocket, I type a quick out of office reply into my email settings. Luckily, Marc’s absence from work will make it easier for me to slip away.

With my hip, I push open the door to the restaurant and walk straight into a checked shirt.

‘Oops! Sorry,’ I exclaim.

Why am I so bloody clumsy? I look up into the face of my obstacle and I am pleasantly surprised by what looks down at me. It is easily six foot tall, with ruffled, mousey hair and big blue sparklers. He flashes me a huge smile and continues on his way. As I watch him swerve his way through the masses of tables, he turns back and smiles again. Not really wanting another projectile vomiting incident, I try desperately to stop the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Blushing, I bow my head and stride back to my table. Only I could stumble across the hottest guy ever with vomit in my hair and panda eye makeup.

‘I’m really sorry, Li but I’m going to head home. I knew I shouldn’t have come in today. I just need to get some sleep.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I haven’t seen anything of Marc anyway so it shouldn’t be a problem. You get yourself home and I will text you later.’

‘Are you staying to finish your lunch?’

‘Hell yeah, I’m not leaving this bad boy for anyone.’

I manage a little smile as she blows a kiss over the table before diving back into the world’s biggest burger. Wrapping my waterfall cardigan tightly around me, I secretly hope to see Mr Checked Shirt again before I leave. Trying to squeeze my way through the chino clan, my eyes search the room. Suddenly, I spot him, leaning against the bar, drink in hand.

Argh! He looks directly at me, raising his hand and flashes another mega watt smile. I blush a ridiculous shade of crimson and practically throw myself out on the pavement. Fighting the urge to look back, I head in the direction of the office car park and climb straight into my black Hyundai i30.

As relieved as I am to be heading back home, to my lovely roll top bath and curling up for some well needed beauty sleep, I cannot help but feel strangely bothered by Mr Checked Shirt. I put the car into gear and pull away from the car park, thankful that by tomorrow morning today’s hung-over nightmare will just be one bad, nauseas memory.