eightand a half minutes of banging on the door to wake you up. Call me Miss Marple, but, yes, I think you’ve got a hangover.’
‘I never get hangovers,’ she says dismissively as she unsuccessfully attempts to stand up unaided. ‘Oh! Maybe I’ve developed some sort of illness that has caused my tongue to swell up and make me go half-blind. Maybe Jack gave it to me! He has just come back from one of his places in deepest Africa and could have brought anything with him. Now, where’s the bathroom?’
I help her up as she tries to make her way into the corner of the room. But Valentina takes a tumble and bangs her leg on a chair.
‘Argghhh!’ she screams.
‘Oh dear,’ I say.
‘Argghhh!’ she screams again.
‘Oh, come on, it can’t have hurt that much.’ I am starting to run out of patience.
‘It’s not the fact that it hurts that bothers me,’ she says, screwing up her face. ‘It’s that I’m going to have a huge bruise on my leg now, which means I’ll have to wear trousers. And I hate trousers.’
‘Well, I’m sure you can live with them for a few days if it means covering up such a horrendous disfigurement as…as a one-inch bruise,’ I say.
‘Evie,’ Valentina tells me, ‘I haven’t got the sort of legs that should be covered up.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I answer. ‘The very idea is like putting polystyrene tiles on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, I suppose?’
When we get into the bathroom, she sits on the loo, unable to stand up in front of the mirror.
‘Pass me my make-up bag, will you?’ she croaks.
‘Who do you think I am, your bloody chambermaid?’ I sigh, but I pass it to her anyway.
Valentina starts rifling through her bag, throwing various items of cosmetic creams, powders and formulas onto the floor as she does so. I pick up one of them–an Estée Lauder cellulite serum–and idly examine the label.
‘I haven’t got cellulite, just for the record,’ Valentina tells me. ‘I’m taking precautions for later life.’
After surrounding herself in anti-wrinkle formulas, bronzing mitts, facial scrubs and God knows how many more cosmetic concoctions, she finally locates a bottle of Optrex and is about to start squirting it into her eyes.
‘Don’t you think you’d be better trying to get all that crap off your face first?’ I suggest.
‘What crap?’ she asks.
‘Your make-up,’ I tell her.
Valentina stops what she’s doing immediately.
‘What?’ she says, starting to hyperventilate. ‘What did you say?’
‘Calm down,’ I tell her, not sure why she’s getting so excited.
‘I left my make-up on last night? Is that what you’re saying? Surely not. No, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. No way. Never .’
She leaps up, hysterical.
‘Oh my God!’ she squeals. ‘WHAT will it have done to my pores?!’
Valentina scrabbles to the sink and for the first time today is greeted by her own reflection. She gasps for air, speechless.
‘No…no…no…’ is all she can say. ‘This isn’t happening. Dear Lord God, tell me this isn’t happening.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say, as I sit her down onto the loo again and pass her a wipe so she can start to take her make-up off.
She drags it across a cheek, her expression utterly dejected.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I say, wondering why I’m indulging her.
‘Do you really think so?’ she asks pathetically.
I sigh. ‘Well, you’re no Brigitte Bardot this morning, that’s for sure,’ I can’t help saying.
‘Ohhh!’
‘But look,’ I continue, desperate to shut her up. ‘A nice shower will sort you out, I’m sure.’ Privately, I think she needs significantly more than ten minutes of ablution under a Gainsborough shower.
‘What’s that?’ Valentina says suddenly, peering at the back of her leg.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘You did the splits last night. I think that muck is from the dance floor.’
‘Not that,’ she whimpers, and peels something away from the sole of her foot. On closer
‘I never get hangovers,’ she says dismissively as she unsuccessfully attempts to stand up unaided. ‘Oh! Maybe I’ve developed some sort of illness that has caused my tongue to swell up and make me go half-blind. Maybe Jack gave it to me! He has just come back from one of his places in deepest Africa and could have brought anything with him. Now, where’s the bathroom?’
I help her up as she tries to make her way into the corner of the room. But Valentina takes a tumble and bangs her leg on a chair.
‘Argghhh!’ she screams.
‘Oh dear,’ I say.
‘Argghhh!’ she screams again.
‘Oh, come on, it can’t have hurt that much.’ I am starting to run out of patience.
‘It’s not the fact that it hurts that bothers me,’ she says, screwing up her face. ‘It’s that I’m going to have a huge bruise on my leg now, which means I’ll have to wear trousers. And I hate trousers.’
‘Well, I’m sure you can live with them for a few days if it means covering up such a horrendous disfigurement as…as a one-inch bruise,’ I say.
‘Evie,’ Valentina tells me, ‘I haven’t got the sort of legs that should be covered up.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I answer. ‘The very idea is like putting polystyrene tiles on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, I suppose?’
When we get into the bathroom, she sits on the loo, unable to stand up in front of the mirror.
‘Pass me my make-up bag, will you?’ she croaks.
‘Who do you think I am, your bloody chambermaid?’ I sigh, but I pass it to her anyway.
Valentina starts rifling through her bag, throwing various items of cosmetic creams, powders and formulas onto the floor as she does so. I pick up one of them–an Estée Lauder cellulite serum–and idly examine the label.
‘I haven’t got cellulite, just for the record,’ Valentina tells me. ‘I’m taking precautions for later life.’
After surrounding herself in anti-wrinkle formulas, bronzing mitts, facial scrubs and God knows how many more cosmetic concoctions, she finally locates a bottle of Optrex and is about to start squirting it into her eyes.
‘Don’t you think you’d be better trying to get all that crap off your face first?’ I suggest.
‘What crap?’ she asks.
‘Your make-up,’ I tell her.
Valentina stops what she’s doing immediately.
‘What?’ she says, starting to hyperventilate. ‘What did you say?’
‘Calm down,’ I tell her, not sure why she’s getting so excited.
‘I left my make-up on last night? Is that what you’re saying? Surely not. No, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. No way. Never .’
She leaps up, hysterical.
‘Oh my God!’ she squeals. ‘WHAT will it have done to my pores?!’
Valentina scrabbles to the sink and for the first time today is greeted by her own reflection. She gasps for air, speechless.
‘No…no…no…’ is all she can say. ‘This isn’t happening. Dear Lord God, tell me this isn’t happening.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say, as I sit her down onto the loo again and pass her a wipe so she can start to take her make-up off.
She drags it across a cheek, her expression utterly dejected.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I say, wondering why I’m indulging her.
‘Do you really think so?’ she asks pathetically.
I sigh. ‘Well, you’re no Brigitte Bardot this morning, that’s for sure,’ I can’t help saying.
‘Ohhh!’
‘But look,’ I continue, desperate to shut her up. ‘A nice shower will sort you out, I’m sure.’ Privately, I think she needs significantly more than ten minutes of ablution under a Gainsborough shower.
‘What’s that?’ Valentina says suddenly, peering at the back of her leg.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘You did the splits last night. I think that muck is from the dance floor.’
‘Not that,’ she whimpers, and peels something away from the sole of her foot. On closer
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