‘I say, are you feeling all right?’ Dominic leaned towards her, concerned. Liza had suddenly gone quite pale. She forced a smile.
‘Bit of a headache, that’s all. I think I’m going to have to .. . oh, good grief ...’
Liza saw who was approaching and experienced a surge of nausea. This was truly turning into the party from hell. And her vision was already starting to go.
‘Surprise,’ said Kit, his shirt-sleeved arm around the shoulder of yet another stunning young.
blonde. Only this time it was one Liza recognised.
‘Nicky, this is Liza. Liza,’ Kit went on, grinning broadly, ‘meet my cousin Nicky.’
The flickering lights were moving like storm clouds across Liza’s field of vision. Hardly able to see the girl’s face, all she could do was pray her expression was friendly.
‘I’m sho em-embarrassed.’ Liza stumbled over the wordsas the pain behind her left eye intensified. Having struggled to her feet she now realised she was in danger of losing her balance. Swaying, she clutched Kit’s arm. Damn, now everyone was going to think she was pissed.
Kit was just saying, ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ when Liza abruptly let go of him and with a mumbled, ‘Excuse me,’ lurched past Nicky and disappeared inside the house.
Her head felt as if it was about to explode. Reaching the bathroom just in time, Liza threw up spectacularly into the toilet and stayed there, shuddering and retching, until there was nothing left to throw up.
Not until there was a discreet tap-tap and the bathroom door swung open did Liza realise she hadn’t locked it properly. She moaned and grabbed a handful of loo roll to wipe her eyes with, knowing how red and hideously puffed-up her face was.
‘Please, don’t come in.’
‘Sorry, too late.’
Within seconds Liza found herself being lifted off the floor and helped over to an uncomfortable chrome chair in the corner of Dominic Hunter-Greene’s stunning silver and white bathroom. The toilet — also chrome — was briskly flushed and a box of tissues thrust into her trembling hands.
‘I heard you being sick,’ said Nicky Berenger. Rummaging in her handbag she produced a packet of chewing gum and a bottle of eye drops and offered them both to Liza. ‘Here, these’ll help. What was it, too much Pimm’s?’
Liza tried to smile. God, it hurt. She gestured feebly at her head.
‘Migraine.’
Nicky looked appalled.
‘And there was me, thinking you were paralytic! Oh, you poor thing. My dad suffers from migraine ... he’s got special pills to take as soon as he feels an attack coming on.’
Liza managed a minuscule nod.
‘Me too, but my last headache was over a year ago.’ Gingerly, she smiled. ‘You forget what they’re like.’
‘Are you two okay in there,’ said Kit, minutes later, ‘or are you having a fight?’
Nicky unwrapped another chewing gum and gave it to Liza, who had just thrown up again.
‘She’s got a migraine. I’m doing my Florence Nightingale bit. You’ll need to borrow a bucket,’
she told Kit, ‘for on the way home.’
He looked horrified.
‘We came by taxi. What driver’s going to take someone carrying a bucket and bringing her boots up in the back of his cab?’
This was true.
‘Okay, I’ll give you a lift,’ said Nicky. ‘Come on.’
The migraine continued on its inexorable course. The journey home was hell. With Kit’s arms around her, Liza closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the agonising vice-like pain. She was sick twice more, luckily into the borrowed bucket. By the time they reached the flat, it was as much as she could do to mumble an almost unintelligible thank-you and let Kit carry her inside to bed.
When Liza arrived at the Songbird two days later, Nicky was perched on a stool at the bar going over next week’s bookings with the chef.
‘Still alive then.’ She grinned when she saw Liza, then exclaimed, ‘Oh, they’re amazing! You didn’t have to do this,’ as Liza put the cellophane-wrapped mass of orange roses into her arms.
‘I think I did.’ Liza kissed her flushed cheek. ‘You were brilliant on Sunday. I just wanted to say thank you for everything. For all your help, and the lift home.’ She hesitated, summoning up the courage to say the rest. It wasn’t made any easier by the chef, who clearly recognised her and was glowering away under fearsome eyebrows like Lurch from the Addams family. ‘I still can’t believe you’re even speaking to me after I almost wrecked your business. I’m so sorry, I can’t tell you how terrible I felt about that.’
Nicky, her eyes gleaming, pushed back her blonde hair and gave Lurch a hefty prod in the ribs.
‘Well, don’t. It wasn’t your fault, it was Marcel’s. Wasn’t it, Marcel?’ she added teasingly. ‘If you hadn’t got legless on Newcastle Brown and turned up for work still half-cut, Liza wouldn’t have been able to criticise us, would she’?’
Marcel looked embarrassed. Apart from anything else, he was a Frenchman. How was he ever going to live down the humiliation of having got plastered on Newcastle Brown Ale?
Liza, who had to be in Cheltenham by midday, checked her watch.
‘Look, I have to go. Thanks again for everything. See you soon, I hope.’ She paused. ‘And if there’s ever
