I gave the grunting hulk beside me a fresh prod in the ribs and this time a ruffled head emerged from the tangled mass of bedcovers, glared balefully at me through reddened eyes then sank back down on the pillows with a pained groan.
'My head hurts. Fetch me an aspirin, bint. What's up? Run out of fresh meat? No toy boys at the market this morning?'
I rummaged in my purse for the emergency pain pill. Not being prone to headaches, the tablet was less than fresh and daintily coated in Kleenex fluff and chocolate crumbs. I brushed it off and passed it to the afflictee, along with the glass of water on the night table.
'Here you are, angel. Best take a nice big gulp or it might just stick in your throat.'
With Herculean effort, Harry lugged his bulk into a semi-upright position. Focusing on nothing in particular, he popped the pill on his tongue and chugged down the contents of the glass. There was a sudden choking sound, followed by a liquid eruption of Niagaric proportions.
'Thhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrpppppppppttttttttttsssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!'
'Harry Gravesend Neptune! You've soaked the bed!'
Rarely did I utter my partner's middle name. It was an event that marked those inevitable times of extreme frustration which pockmark the face of any Great Love. Harry gasped and spluttered.
'That was neat Tequila, you little horror! You're trying to kill me again, aren't you? I don't know why. I keep telling you I don't have a brass farthing to my name. Neptune has never been synonymous with wealth, I'm afraid.'
'Oops!'
Sheepishly, I took the glass from Harry's outstretched hand and sniffed the remains. It was booze all right. Gently, I replaced the tumbler on the night table and stroked my paramour's tousled hair. I had news to break and I sensed the bulletin might hit him hard.
'Darling, I have something to tell you.'
'You've found a cure for the farting.'
'No, dear.'
'Too bad. It's kind of ripe in here. Can't you open a window or something? Where the heck are we, anyway?'
Harry peered at his surroundings, a typically nondescript hotel room.
I steeled myself.
'We're in Las Vegas, sweetie.'
'I thought you disapproved of gambling!'
'I do. Always thought craps was something you put on the roses. But, angel…'
Harry clasped his throbbing head, then gingerly drew back the sodden sheets to reveal some interesting night apparel.
'Don't tell me! I lost my shirt, didn't I? What on earth am I wearing? You minx, Lawrence. You set me up with the girls at the Crazy Horse again, didn't you? Ah, I remember Paris. Is the Nevada squad as lively as the French? Odd, I really can't recall a thing…'
'Nice jammies.'
I stifled a giggle. Harry was resplendent in scarlet silk pajamas, naughtily printed with top-heavy nudes. He slowly examined the pattern with increasing amusement.
'Ooh, I say! Look at this plump one under my armpit. Could be you, except her bum's not big enough…'
I stiffened.
'That's enough. I can't help my genes. It's the Eskimo blood. Right. That's it. No more beating around the bush. You asked for it, Neptune. The thing is – we got married.'
Harry's tanned face blanched to a shade normally associated with blotting paper. Then he looked at me suspiciously, a wry smile hovering about his lips.
'OK, Jaybird, you're a very funny girl. Joke's over. Harry Neptune ain't that gullible.'
I sighed heavily and patted his hand.
'I'm sorry, darling. It's not a joke. You proposed and I accepted. We are hitched. Spliced. Man and wife.'
My other half issued a pitiful strangled cry. I'd heard him make some pretty peculiar noises over the course of our long-time partnership but this one was new to the repertoire.
'But where? How? When?'
'At the Buxom Baybe Medieval Boob Fest. In the Chapel of Celestial Bliss. By the Fairly Irreverent Pastor Von Schlong. Sometime last night.'
Harry rallied visibly.
'Buxom Boob Fest? Pastor Von Schlong? Hah! Relax, Lawrence, there's no way it can possibly be legal. What are we doing for breakfast? I'm beginning to feel a bit more human again.'
'There's a place across the road. But darling, I'm afraid this marriage lark is not the jolly jape it seems. I called my attorney about an hour ago, thinking he'd laugh my worries all the way to Yuma. The trouble is, it's legal. I'm Mrs. Harry Gravesend Neptune.'
Harry moaned.
'Oh, good grief. We've been in some dangerous situations but this one takes the biscuit. I don't want a wife! Had one once, hated every moment of it. There has to be an Acme Drive-Thru De-Hitching Center. This is Vegas. Easy come, easy go. Fetch me my shorts!'
I stared at the outraged vision in the lurid pajamas.
'Well, if you must know, this wasn't what I had in mind either! Give me Venice over Vegas, any time. Find your own shorts!'
'Acting like a bloody married woman already, I see. Right, then. Breakfast first, then we seek further legal advice. I don't believe this. I just don't bloody believe it. Wait 'til I get my hands on that Von Schlong. I'll wrap him round a lamppost. What the hell was I drinking last night, anyway? Jet fuel?'
I searched my memory bank and came up with something unsavory.
'I think it was that stuff that comes with a nice fat juicy worm in every bottle. You were showing off for a brace of blonde croupiers from Caligula's Circus. I think you actually ate the bug, with a Jalapeno chaser.'
Harry clutched his stomach.
'That's it! I'm going on the wagon. Never again!'
'No more croupiers?'
'Ha ha. Lawrence, I don't suppose we have photographic evidence of this fiasco, do we? Exhibit A, as it were.'
I fished in my purse and withdrew a Polaroid. Harry's face contorted. He turned beetroot. His stomach heaved. Finally, he let out a huge guffaw.
'HEE! HEE! HEE! Another one for the family album! That is an absolute classic! Where are you, anyway?'
'Oh, very funny.'
I snatched the instant image from my better half, and wondered whether I could have it digitally altered. A very much the worse for wear Harry leaned (nay, slumped) against a fake Roman column, elegantly dressed for the occasion in a garish Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his navel. His glasses were slightly askew, his eyes likewise. His hair was a mess. In fact, it looked as if he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, to quote a quaint old Celtic phrase. Beside him, at torso level, was an equally disheveled head, all red eye and out of focus. Apparently, due to the cramped dimensions of the chapel and the distinctive difference in the bride and groom's respective heights, the photographer decided to capture what he could. It was cut off Harry's head or lose my body and my body lost. I stifled a sob.
'There, there, old girl. The shirt ain't all that bad, and anyway it looks like it didn't survive the party. Where the hell did these pajamas come from, anyway?'
'I don't care where the bloody shirt went or where the bloody pajamas came from! I want my wedding
