This morning I’ve woken up with a huge sense of guilt and regret and it takes me a couple of seconds to backtrack through last night to remember why. Images of Cara and Vanessa pop into my mind, followed by the pitchers of margaritas. And, uh-oh – it hits me like a thunderbolt – the Sky box incident.
I can’t even revel in the accidental revenge as I’m mourning the loss of the latest season of Grey’s Anatomy that I hadn’t caught up with.
I wait for the feeling of sickness, the bedroom spin or the pounding of drums to start. After the quantity of alcohol I drank last night it’s inevitable that I’m going to feel like crap for the whole of today, if not the whole of tomorrow, too, given my hangovers of late.
I sit up slowly, cherishing what could be my last few minutes of being pain free, only to realise once I’m upright that I still feel all right.
Will had selected to go to my parents next weekend, thinking he’d be tired after watching last night’s fight and would rather chill out on the sofa watching the Grand Prix and the footie. Now, with the satellite box ruined, his plans are also ruined and it means I can still salvage the day. If it was up to me how would we spend the perfect Sunday? I can’t help but think of Robin. I can feel myself blushing a little as I imagine him padding downstairs in pyjama bottoms and no top (in my imagination he has a six-pack too). He walks into his kitchen and makes coffee from a fancy machine, before retiring back to bed with a tray of Sunday paper, coffee and croissants.
What I wouldn’t give to have a morning like that.
But what’s to stop me? Will’s still sound asleep and snoring so it looks like I’ve got time to pull it off.
I get out of bed and realise that I don’t feel too bad. I dress quickly, before my hangover has time to catch up, and decide there’s no point showering if I’m off back to bed.
I quietly go downstairs and make a cafetière of coffee, letting it percolate while I go in search of the other ingredients. After finding my handbag, I slip out of the house to complete my mission.
I get back from the local shop ten minutes later, armed with fresh croissants and a selection of Sunday papers. I plunge the coffee, pour two cups and place everything on a tray before heading upstairs.
I’m beaming with pride when I walk into the bedroom.
‘What’s all this, then?’ asks Will, rubbing his eyes. He sits up and readjusts his pillow behind his back, before propping mine up for me. ‘Let me take that. Wouldn’t want you spilling it all over me and the bed.’
He’s holding his hands out and giving me a small smile.
I know I’m probably not forgiven yet after last night, but at least he’s talking to me, which is progress.
‘Peace offering,’ I say, handing him the tray.
He looks down at the contents and nods his head in approval.
‘Fresh croissants, and jam in a ramekin rather than the jar. You have made an effort.’
I shrug my shoulders, as if it was no big deal. Which in reality it wasn’t. I should so do this more often. Who knows, this could be the start of our leisurely Sunday mornings in bed.
Will tucks straight into a croissant and I can’t help but wince as the crumbs start to scatter over our white bedding.
I pick one up for myself, and hold a plate directly under my mouth to catch any flaky bits. It’s not quite the relaxing care free experience I thought it would be.
‘Great, the Sunday Times,’ says Will, pulling out the paper. He starts to dissect it. ‘What bit do you want? News, Travel, the Culture, the magazine?’
‘Um, I’ll go for the news first.’
Usually I’d pick the Culture, but today, as we’re doing the grown-up coffee and papers in bed, I’ll start with what I think a grown-up would.
He hands me the main section of the news before selecting the Sport for himself. No surprises there then.
He opens it up and starts reading.
We flick through in silence for a bit, before something leaps out at me.
‘Oh, this is interesting,’ I say, scan-reading a piece on fossils. ‘It says here scientists have discovered a new dragon-like fossil in China.’
I look up at Will to share with him this amazing nugget of information, but he’s not listening to me. He’s engrossed in an article. How could he not be as excited as I am that they’ve found evidence of a real dragon.
I sigh, which again he doesn’t notice, and then he practically hits me in the face as he opens his section up to full size.
I open mine up wider and we start to jostle for space to read. In the end he pulls his paper up like a defensive wall around him.
This is not what I had envisaged. In my head I’d imagined that we’d sit with a paper between us, picking out stories to read and discussing them while sipping our coffee. It would be a bit like the paper review on a news channel, only more cuddles and maybe a bit of nooky.
A hand appears from under the blanket and he retrieves another croissant from the plate on the bed. I can just see crumbs flying from underneath the bottom of his paper.
I try and turn my attention back to the news, but as I flick through it, it all seems so depressing and I’ve read most of the stories on my phone in the week anyway.
After ten minutes I’ve had enough. I wonder if I should try and initiate a bit of sexy time, but one look at the covers littered with crumbs and I’m freaked out by the mess.
‘I’m going to have a bath,’ I say loudly as I get off the bed. I turn and look at Will and he doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m going.
Well, that didn’t really pan out as I’d hoped. It wasn’t quite the scene that Robin painted.
All I can hope is that when I get out of my bath, Will is finished with the sports pages and then I’ll seize the day back into my control. It really was a rookie mistake on my part – I should have thrown the sports section out before I got home.
*
By the time the water has gone cold and I finally put my book down and drag myself out of the bath, Will’s disappeared from the bedroom.
This is my window, I think to myself as I quickly get dressed and head downstairs.
I’m excitedly thinking about what we can do next when I hear shouting coming from the lounge. It’s getting louder and more intense the closer I get.
‘Take that,’ shouts Will, before there’s a large bang.
I’m wondering if he’s smashing up the remnants of the satellite box as I hurry to see what’s going on.
‘What the –’ I say as I walk in.
Will’s sat on the poof in the middle of the room clutching a games controller.
This is not boding well for my romantic Sunday.
‘What you doing?’ I ask, despite the fact it’s pretty obvious.
He pauses the game and looks up at me.
‘I was reading the paper and they had a reference to an old FIFA game, and it made me want to get mine out and play it. Seeing as I can’t watch actual sport.’
‘Where was that thing?’
I didn’t even know Will had it in the house. I remember him playing one when we first met and he lived in a shared house, but I didn’t know he owned it.
Oh God, I can see my future. I’m sat on the sofa alone while my boyfriend is on the floor in one of those weird half-chairs, shouting orders to his friends through his headset. All I’ll be good for is going to get him a beer or two out of the fridge.
I look round the room for the margarita glass. It worked once, right?
‘Are you going to be playing this all day?’ I say, wondering if I’ll be able to prise him away from it.
‘I was going to watch the Grand Prix, but you know, what with the box being fried . . .’ he says, giving me a stare which lets me know that I am still firmly in the doghouse.
He un-pauses the game and starts moving his men around on the pitch. The sound of a crowd roars in the background and he’s back to muttering and shouting at the screen. To be honest, it’s the same soundtrack as if he was watching a game.
‘I was thinking, perhaps we could go for a walk this afternoon and maybe go for a pub roast? Or out for brunch?’
Isn’t that the thing that people do now?
He looks between me and the game, as if he’s weighing up the options.
‘OK,’ he says quickly. ‘But I’ll just finish this season first.’
I look up at him in surprise. I can’t quite believe that he agreed so easily.
‘Great,’ I say, turning and hurrying out towards the kitchen before he can change his mind.
Perhaps sacrificing Grey’s Anatomy was a small price to pay to get some quality time together.
*
It turns out the season takes a little longer than expected. We missed brunch, and are now trying to find somewhere still serving a roast at two. I’m trying not to let my anger spoil the rest of the afternoon we’re about to have. I’m determined that we’re still going to have our roast, and go for our walk – the fat lady ain’t singing yet.
‘How about here?’ asks Will.
I look up at the Swan before looking both ways down the high street, as if hoping to see another option. But I know that we’ve already exhausted the rest of the pubs.
My stomach growls at me, and Will’s eyebrows are arched as he waits for my answer.
‘OK, let’s try.’
Will holds open the door and I walk over to the bar, hoping that they’ll be full like all the rest.
‘I just wondered if you were still doing your roast and if you’ve got room for us?’
‘The restaurant is full, but you can eat in the bar,’ says the barmaid as she unloads a full tray of steaming clean glasses on to the shelves.
‘Perfect,’ says Will, making a beeline for one that just happens to be under a giant TV showing the Grand Prix.
‘Perhaps there’s a quieter one,’ I say, scanning the pub, but there’s an abundance of screens and no matter where we sit we’ll be able to see one.
‘This one’s fine,’ says Will as he settles down, his attention already fixed on motor racing.
I bite the side of my mouth.
‘If we’re lucky and the food’s slow, we might be able to watch the Spurs v Man City game,’ says Will excitedly. ‘Great suggestion to come here.’
I grit my teeth. I guess we’re technically spending quality time together. ‘I’ll go and order us the food.’
I go over to the bar and console myself that at least my growling stomach will soon be cured.
‘What can I get you?’
‘We’ll take two beef roasts and a G&T and a pint of Theakston’s, please.’
‘OK, there’s going to be an hour’s wait for food. Is that OK?’
My heart (and my stomach) sinks. What option do I have? We’ve already tried everywhere else.
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I say, lying.
I pay for the food and go over to tell Will.
‘Yes,’ he says, practically punching the air. ‘It’s almost better than having the Sky box working, isn’t it? Food and drink on tap.’
‘Hmm. But don’t forget we’re going for that walk later.’
‘Yeah, that’s fine. There’s not much sport on later anyway.’
*
I’ll say one thing for the pub: it did good food. I’m well and truly stuffed and Will practically had to roll me to the car. What I really want to do is go home and curl up in front of the telly. I couldn’t think of anything worse than going for a walk, but having made such a fuss about it, I can’t back out now.
We pull up at the car park of some nearby woods, and as we get out of the car I look up at the sky. It’s been a gloomy grey colour all morning but now it’s growing darker, and the wind’s blowing colder. Even the elements are trying to tell me this is a bad idea.
‘Let’s go, then,’ says Will, strolling over to the board of walking routes. This is almost on our doorstep, but it’s been a while since we’ve been here. ‘Shall we do this one? It says it should only take us an hour.’
I think an hour’s pretty optimistic with my belly feeling like a lead weight, and looking at the clouds, I don’t know if the rain will hold for that long.
We start walking towards the path when the heavens open. I run to a nearby tree and take cover, but not before I’m soaked.
‘Holy crap,’ says Will. ‘Do you want to take a rain check – literally?’
‘I guess so.’
Neither of us are prepared for the rain. I’m wearing a Florence & Fred parka, which is toasty warm but not particularly waterproof, and Will’s not wearing a coat – only his large Southampton hoodie.
‘Shall we make a run for it?’ he asks.
The rain is bouncing off the car park, and I doubt that it’s going to stop anytime soon. He hits the key fob and we see the lights flash.
‘Go go go!’ he shouts as he runs.
I pull up my hood and hope for the best as I follow him.
The car is less than a hundred metres away but I’m drenched by the time I get there. The faux fur trim on my hood is dripping, causing puddles on the few dry bits of my jeans.
‘So much for that idea,’ says Will, shaking his head like a wet dog.
He starts the car and drives us back towards home. It doesn’t take us long and when we get in I go upstairs and change – it has definitely turned into a pyjama afternoon. I come back downstairs, about to suggest that we watch a DVD, but when I walk in the lounge I see that Will is playing his computer game again.
‘Oh,’ I say, frowning.
‘Sorry, I didn’t know how long you were going to be. You don’t mind if I do another quick game, do you? I’d forgotten how good it was. Unless you wanted to do something else?’
I bite my lip.
‘Well, we could, you know . . . if I closed the blind.’
I try to block out the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother, asking what our neighbours would say if we closed our blinds in the middle of the day.
‘Um, couldn’t we do that later? Score!’ he shouts, cheering at his game.
He pauses it quickly and looks at me.
‘I’m still a bit full from lunch, and I don’t really think I’m up to it. But later, yeah? Tonight?’
‘Fine,’ I say sulkily. Although, to be honest, I don’t really fancy it either, but I felt like it was my last hope to win back control of the afternoon.
Today’s been a total write-off in the perfect Sunday stakes.
I go and settle on the sofa at the end of the room and pick up my laptop, thinking I could at least get some writing done. I have a quick check of my blog stats, and I find that my figures are at over three thousand. Surely that can’t be right?
I read through the comments from people who are all desperately seeking the next instalment of revenge after Sunday’s. I know me ruining the satellite box was an accident, but my blog readers don’t have to know that, do they?
I start to limber up my fingers, wondering what I’m going to write, as from Will’s point of view he appears to have rescued his Sunday quite nicely. I might need to use poetic licence for that, too.
Have you ever seen a grown man cry? Think the tears that are shed whenever England goes out of a World Cup after a penalty shootout and times it by ten. That’s what happened to my poor boyfriend when I threw a glass of margarita over our Sky box. Not only did he miss the boxing that all his mates had come round specially to watch, but he also lost all his treasured saved games too.
Today he’s been sulking like a teenager. Barely talking and wandering about in a daze, not knowing what to do with his time. It’s fallen to me to re-educate him as to the joys of reading the paper, breakfast in bed and going out for lunch.
I swear he’s starting to get the shakes, like an addict going cold turkey.
‘Get in,’ shouts Will, punching the air at whatever he’s doing. He’s worlds away from the man I’m describing. I seem to have turned Will into the ultimate pantomime villain, but it’s surely the type of story that my blog readers (all three thousand of them!) are expecting. Without thinking too much about it, I hit Post.
I shut my laptop down and sit and watch my boyfriend direct his footballers on the screen. The revenge might not be working so well today in real life, but at least, for my blog, it worked well in fiction.