Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [176]
‘He’s cute,’ the girl insisted.
‘’S not cute. ’S Ravi.’
But the mouth-washing was a pointless exercise because no sooner was it done than Tara threw up again. And again.
When the taxi arrived, Sleepy Steve knocked on the door of the ladies’ toilet.
‘Before we go, do you need to… again, you know…?’ Ravi asked discreetly. But no, Tara was all puked out, for the time being anyway. She was in floods of tears again, however.
The door opened and in swept Amy, willowy and gorgeous. ‘Tara,’ she gasped, ‘what’s wrong? Why are you crying?’
Though she hadn’t seen her in ages she hadn’t forgotten how nice Tara had been after she’d set the police on Lorcan.
‘M’ friend’s dyin’ an’ ‘sail over with m’ fella.’
Amy seized on the worst piece of news. ‘Oh, no. That’s terrible. It’s all over with your boyfriend. Oh, you poor, poor thing.’ Then she had a wondrous, joyous idea. ‘I know! My boyfriend has a lovely friend. You’d be just right for each other. His name is Benjy, well all go out in a foursome in January.’
‘Sounds nice,’ Tara said, through her tears. ‘Does’t it, Ravi?’
‘Great.’
‘So long as you don’t fall in love with Lorcan.’ Amy giggled nervously.
‘’Slong’s I doan.’
Ravi assisted Tara, weeping and shambolic, through the reception area, where a cluster of smartly dressed men from the payroll department was about to depart for their dinner. They looked open-mouthed at the bleary-faced state of Tara.
‘Something she ate,’ Ravi said stoutly.
But as Ravi helped Tara down the short flight of stairs that led from the reception area to the exit, Tara began to heave again.
‘Just a minute…’ Ravi gasped, looking around in panic for something for Tara to vomit into. ‘Try not to –’
But it was too late, Tara was unable to stop herself from puking the last of her sherry on to the small metal handrail that ran beside the steps. ‘Sorry, Ravi,’ she said, thickly. ‘I’m ’sgusting.’
‘You’re OK, sweetheart,’ Ravi soothed, hoping to Christ that the taxi-driver wouldn’t refuse to take them. ‘Could someone clean that up, please,’ he called over his shoulder. But, of course, no one did. The staff from the payroll department had no intention of running the risk of splashing someone else’s puke on to their good going-out clothes. If anyone’s puke was going to be splashed on to them it would be their own.
Seconds later Alvin Honeycomb, the managing director of GK Software, rushed out of the lift and into the reception area. Tall, distinguished of temple (grey, in other words) and handsome, he swept through in a navy cashmere overcoat, carrying a clunky briefcase and an I’m-a-busy-and-important-man air. He, too, was on his way to a function. ‘Night all,’ he called, in his deep, mellifluous tones as he galloped towards the exit. He prided himself on being pleasant to his staff and waited to hear the chorus of ‘Goodnight, Mr Honeycomb.’ He always ran down the short flight of stairs to the exit, as though doing a dance. A flurry of perfect little steps executed in his soft, slip-on Italian shoes, that led him on to the street, invariably just in time to hail the empty taxi that would be approaching. But this night, as he placed his hand on the railing to begin his little tap-dance into the street below, he connected with some of Tara’s recently regurgitated sherry. To Mr Honeycomb’s great alarm, his arm whooshed straight to the bottom of the rail, carried on a tide of vomit, the rest of him following rapidly, as though he’d just dived into a swimming-pool. His feet tried and failed to regain contact with the steps, and before he knew it he had tumbled down the entire seven steps and rolled into the street below, sustaining a bruised shoulder and a nasty crack to his chin. His briefcase skittered across the icy pavement, and for a few moments he remained sprawled, balanced on his chin, his arse in the air, too stunned to get up. A well-dressed couple en route to a work do sighed as they stepped over him and said, ‘Honestly, some people take this Christmas thing too far. They