‘Get up.’
The mattress bounced. Her stomach dropped.
‘Come on.’ AJ prodded her leg.
‘I can’t, I’m dying,’ she muttered, motionless bar her mouth.
He scoffed.
She moaned, head imploding. ‘Go away.’
TV and radio clamoured in competition with AJ.
‘And turn off the damn noise.’
‘No sympathy.’ He prodded harder. ‘It’s self-inflicted.’
Georgie remembered downing quite a few beers at the wake, plus a number of scotches and glasses of red wine. Between that and the painkillers… He could be right; she may have overdone things.
You think?
You think?She jumped to the present. Swallowed, nauseated. It was insensitive and brainless to put a hangover and death in the same category – even the worst hangover in history.
Hangovers and death. Stale and foul. In her mind, time transferred to the
