Chapter One


How long have I been awake? Is it morning yet?

I feel so rough. What happened last night? God, my head hurts. Okay, I'm never drinking again, ever.

I feel so woozy I can't even think, let alone . . .
***

Oww. How long have I been awake?

My head is splitting and kind of foggy. And my mouth is parched. This is the most monster hangover I've ever had. I'm never drinking again, ever.

Is that a voice?

No, I have to sleep . . .
***

How long have I been awake? Five minutes? Half an hour, maybe? It's kind of hard to tell.

What day is it, anyway?

For a moment I just lie still. My head is pounding with a rhythmic pain, like some sort of massive concrete-breaker. I'm dry-throated and aching all over. My skin feels like sandpaper.

Where was I last night? What's wrong with my brain? It's like a fog has descended over everything. I'm never drinking again. I must have alcohol poisoning or something. I'm trying to remember last night as hard as I can-but all that's coming into my head is stupid stuff. Old memories and images from the past, flashing by in random order, like some kind of iPod shuffle in my brain.

Sunflowers waving against a blue sky . . .

Amy as a newborn baby, looking like a little pink sausage in a blanket . . .

A plate of salty french fries on a wooden pub table; hot sunshine on my neck; my dad sitting opposite in a Panama hat, blowing out cigar smoke and telling me, "Eat up, sweetheart" . . .

The sack race at school. Oh God, not this memory again. I try to block it out, but too late, it's rushing in. . . . I'm seven years old, it's sports day, and I'm winning by miles, but it feels so uncomfortable to be out front that I stop and wait for all my friends. They catch up-then somehow in the melee I trip and wind up coming in last. I can still feel the humiliation, hear the laughter, feel the dust in my throat, the taste of bananas . . .

Hang on. Somehow I force my brain to hold steady for a moment.

Bananas.

Through the fog another memory is glimmering. I'm desperately trying to retrieve it, to reach for it . . .

Yes. Got it. Banana cocktails.

We were drinking cocktails at some club. That's all I can remember. Bloody banana cocktails. What on earth did they put in them?

I can't even open my eyes. They feel heavy and stuck down, like that time I used false eyelashes with dodgy glue from the market, then tottered into the bathroom the next morning to find one eye glued shut with what looked like a dead spider on top of it. Really attractive, Lexi.

Cautiously, I move a hand up to my chest and hear a rustle of sheets. They don't sound like the ones at home. And there's a weird lemony smell in the air, and I'm wearing some soft cottony T-shirt thing I don't recognize. Where am I? What on earth-

Hey. I didn't score, did I?

Oh wow. Was I unfaithful to Loser Dave? Am I wearing some hot guy's oversize T-shirt which I borrowed to sleep in after we had passionate sex all night and that's why I feel so bruised and sore-
No, I've never been unfaithful in my life. I must have stayed overnight with one of the girls or something. Maybe I'll get up, have a shower . . .

With a huge effort I wrench my eyes open and incline my head a few inches.
Shit. What the hell-

I'm lying in a dim room, on a metal bed. There's a panel of buttons to my right, a bunch of flowers on the nightstand. With an inward gulp I see an IV drip in my left hand, attached to a bag of fluid.
This is unreal. I'm in hospital.

What's going on? What happened?

I mentally prod my brain, but...