Not Quite Perfect. Annie Lyons

eaten since lunchtime and the thought fills her with an overpowering hunger bordering on nausea, but she agrees. They stagger out into the drizzly night and across the road to the pink neon-lit Bombay Fantasy. The waiters’ smiles are patient and accommodating and they are quickly led to an enormous table adjacent to the only other diners: three sweaty city boys, their faces red from alcohol with shirtsleeves rolled up and ties abandoned. Their ringleader, a mid-thirties chancer with a receding hairline and an air of being funnier than he is, leers towards them: ‘All right ladies?’

      ‘All right?’ Rachel replies with bravado.

      ‘So what are two gorgeous ladies like yourselves doing out alone?’

      Rachel is in her element. ‘Trying to avoid cretinous men, but failing miserably,’ she retorts fixing him with a disappointed look.

      Chancer likes this response. ‘Ha ha, get you. Are you lesbians then?’ he asks, as if this could be the only explanation for Rachel’s sarcasm.

      Emma matches her sister’s look. ‘We’re sisters, half-wit.’

      ‘Even better! How about we finish up here and you can shake your booties back at my gaff?’ says Chancer nudging his friends.

      Emma is about to open her mouth but Rachel holds up her hand to stop her. ‘We-ell,’ she purrs, ‘that sounds like a very tempting offer. Are you going to buy us dinner then?’

      Chancer grins. ‘Of course.’

      ‘Why don’t we get it to take away?’ adds Rachel provocatively.

      ‘Wahey!’ Chancer and his monkeys whoop in agreement.

      Emma pretends to drop her napkin and hisses, ‘Rachel!’

      Rachel bobs her head under the table. ‘What?’

      ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘Getting us a free takeaway. Trust me.’

      ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

      ‘Just meet me by the door in five minutes.’

      They place their order. Rachel makes her excuses and goes to the toilet, flashing her cleavage as she passes the city boys, who wolf-whistle in appreciation. Emma attempts a smile and Chancer’s weasly, greasy-haired friend takes this as a come-on. ‘I think you’re in there, Jez,’ says Chancer with a nudge

      Emma feels as if she might vomit and lurches to her feet. ‘I just need to go and check on my sister.’

      ‘You do that, darling.’

      Rachel is talking to the waiter as Emma staggers up. ‘So those lovely men over there have kindly agreed to pay for our dinner. Thanks so much. Let’s go, Em.’

      They make for the door.

      ‘Oi! What do you think you’re playing at?’ Chancer is on his feet now.

      ‘Run for it!’

      Rachel grabs Emma’s hand and they sprint onto a bus that has just pulled into its stop.

      ‘You slags!’ shouts Chancer after them.

      Rachel and Emma collapse onto the back seats and Rachel waves and blows kisses at their hapless pursuer, who is being ushered back into the restaurant by two burly Indian waiters, keen to obtain payment. The bus speeds off down the road leaving the city boys far behind them.

      ‘Ha!’ declares Rachel. ‘Another classic Darcy girl adventure! Em, are you OK? You look a bit green.’

      ‘Actually, I feel a bit –’ and she promptly vomits into the takeaway bag.

      ‘Oh, very nice,’ says Rachel, ‘you really can’t handle your drink, can you?’

      They have only travelled two stops. The bus driver comes out of his cab.

      ‘Right, you two. Off!’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘You’ll have to get off the bus.’

      ‘But she’s ill and we’re two lone females.’

      ‘Not my problem, love. She’s obviously had too much to drink. You’ll have to get off. You’ll stink out my bus.’

      ‘Oh charming, very gallant, chucking us out into the cold. Come on Vomiting Veronica. You can stay at mine and you owe me a takeaway.’

      She leads a shivering Emma off the bus and they stagger all the way back to Rachel’s house. Rachel drapes her sister over the wall while she fumbles for her keys. She sees a light come on in Tom’s hallway and is half-pleased and half-mortified when he opens the door.

      ‘Ah, Mrs Summers, how was the pub? Are you drunk?’

      ‘As a skunk, Mr Davies, and this,’ she picks up her almost comatose sister and waves a floppy hand, ‘is my sister, Emma.’

      ‘A pleasure,’ Tom declares. ‘Need any help getting in?’

      ‘If you could help me get old Chunder-Cheeks into the lounge that would be great.’ Rachel opens the door and between them, they manhandle Emma onto the sofa. ‘Thank you. You’re a gent.’

      ‘No problemo. By the way, Rachel, I got the feeling Steve wasn’t too pleased to find me here tonight. I just hope I didn’t cause you any grief.’

      ‘Oh Tom, it’s not you. Steve just needs to get his priorities sorted and I need to talk to him like a grown-up, but we will, I promise. Now shoo, Doris at number thirty-two would love to see you skulking out of my house in the wee small hours, but I don’t want to get a reputation.’

      ‘Of course.’

      Tom moves to pass her in the hall, turning to look at her as he does so. Rachel, slightly drunk and not wanting to appear unfriendly goes to peck him on the cheek but mistimes her attack and ends up planting the kiss on the right-side of his lip. To Rachel’s mind, your next action in this kind of situation is the borderline between fidelity and adultery. She is drunk, but decides to brush it off with an embarrassed giggle. Tom smiles and the moment passes without incident, but as she shuts the door behind him, she leans against it and lets out a sigh. What are you playing at Rachel, you fool? she thinks.

      She tucks up Emma, leaving her a glass of water. She tiptoes upstairs to the half-lit darkness of the marital bedroom. She undresses quickly and wriggles into bed beside Steve’s steady breathing form.

      ‘Steve? Are you awake?’

      There is no response, which Rachel takes as either no interest or genuine sleep. She lies awake for the next hour or so, her mind heavy with worry until alcohol and fatigue transport her to a restless sleep.

      Chapter 7

      Emma blinks at her screen unable to believe that she has caused herself this world of pain again. Her left eye is twitching with the effort of being open and her temple is throbbing with a dull echo, pounding the words ‘Too much beer! Too much beer!’ She squints at the over-bright screen and wonders if people would notice if she slipped on her sunglasses.

      ‘Having troubles there, missus?’

      ‘Ella, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to creep up on people like that?’

      ‘Sorry, my mother had a Stephen King obsession so, to be honest, scaring people was a family pastime. What was it last night?’

      ‘Beer. Too much. Don’t want to talk about it. All Rachel’s fault,’ stammers Emma, feeling bilious at the memory. ‘I think I puked on a bus.’

      ‘Euurgh, sounds like you might need one of David and Simon’s cure-all fry-ups.’

      ‘Please, Ella. Do you want to see the contents of my stomach?’

      ‘Hmm, not especially. Shall I leave you?’

      ‘If