21When Andrew Lambert wandered into the dining room sometime later, head filled with cotton wool, eyes sticky, barely able to focus, his few remaining guests were still asleep. He stood and studied them, most lying with their limbs intertwined, semi-naked, food and spilled glasses of drink all around them. He folded his arms and leaned against the door well.
A shadow moved next to his shoulder and he turned, alarmed, but then relaxed as Miles, dishevelled, hair wild, face red, smacking dried lips, came up close. “Christ,” he muttered, “how long were we out for?”
“I don't know,” said Lambert, his body growing more alert and light, soon wide-awake. “I have no idea of the time.”
Cheryl emerged, similar in her state of exhaustion to Miles, and snaked an arm around his waist. “I'm thirsty,”
