Comedy of Terriers by Julia Mutlow

CHAPTER 1

‘Go away,’ growled the duvet.

Undeterred, Lizzie cautiously opened the bedroom door.

 ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ she asked, placing a mug of tea on the cluttered table next to her friend’s bed.

 ‘Terrible, since you ask,’ muttered the tangle of dark curls emerging from beneath the Egyptian cotton.

 ‘How’s your nose?’

‘Fine. Why?’ Sophie navigated a hand through the curls towards her face. Simultaneously, she noticed a number of dark red patches splattered across the linen; blood. They resembled bad modern art.

‘Oh, my God. What have I done?’ she exclaimed, as her fingers discovered a lump on the bridge of her nose.

‘We were in The Wine Bar. You were dancing a little enthusiastically, tripped and bashed your face on the edge of a table. That’s all,’ replied Lizzie, the queen of understatement. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Of course it does.’ Sophie sat up and peered towards the mirror on the opposite side of the bedroom. At that moment she was grateful for the previous evening’s alcohol intake. Nothing was in sharp focus.

‘I can’t believe it. I start my new job on Monday. Great impression I’m going to make.’

‘Just say it’s a UDI.’

‘What’s a UDI?’ Sophie crinkled her nose.

‘Commonly known as an Unidentified Drinking Injury. The condition is most prevalent amongst recently dumped late thirty-something women, rediscovering the analgesic effects of Chablis after months of abstinence, having always been designated driver during their tenure as one half of a couple.’

Sophie giggled. Her best friend always made her smile; something she had done far too little of since Rupert.

‘Don’t make me laugh. It hurts!’ she whined, rubbing the side of her nose. ‘Thirty-nine years old and still behaving like a student. I’m supposed to be married with two adorable children by now, not throwing myself around wine bars as though auditioning for Riverdance.’

‘Who says? Look. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you at midday, if you haven’t surfaced by then, and we can head into town for lunch.’

Lizzie left the room. Sophie sank back into the luxury of the goose down pillows, a treat to herself in the days when she earned a decent income, and groaned. Her head felt as though it was going to explode. She couldn’t begin to think about how she was going to explain the nasal art to her new colleagues. In fact, at that moment, she was struggling to think about anything beyond sleep and a darkened room. This wasn’t how life was supposed to be at her age.

Two hours later, she was annoyed to be woken by her neighbour’s vacuum cleaner. She rolled over and squinted at the over-sized alarm clock, partially hidden by a cold mug of tea and a pile of books on positive thinking.11.30; a perfectly civilised time to carry out noisy domestic chores. Sophie was feeling far from civilised. She opened her eyes with difficulty; her lashes were clogged with waterproof mascara. At least she hadn’t cried or she hoped she hadn’t. Her nose hurt a great deal, as did her head. She stepped shakily out of bed and vowed, for the third time in as many weeks, never to drink alcohol again.

Thirty minutes later, showered and changed into a white linen shirt, her favourite jeans and leopard print ballet pumps she felt slightly better, so headed downstairs in search of caffeine.

‘Morning,’ smiled Lizzie.

‘Morning. I’m ready for it. Tell me the worst. When I tripped over last night, who saw…was…’

‘No, Rupes wasn’t there. Nor was anyone else of any consequence.’

Sophie smiled uncertainly, pathetically grateful for her friend’s assurance, even though she suspected Lizzie was protecting her feelings rather than telling the truth.

‘So Gaby wasn’t…’

‘No, she wasn’t,’ Lizzie said briskly. ‘Anyway, it was your leaving party so you were perfectly entitled to drink yourself silly and fall over. Good riddance to the lot of them.’

Sophie’s devastation at the unforeseen ending of her six month relationship

with Rupert Carruthers had been absolute. The love affair, or from his perspective – lust affair, had been ended by him, by email, and he had refused to speak to her thereafter.

As he was a partner in the law firm where she worked and was serving her notice; the notice that she would never have handed in, had it not been for Rupert, the situation was especially difficult. Wine had proved an effective anaesthetic in the weeks following the break-up.

Suitable reassured that she had not disgraced herself in front of anyone who mattered, Sophie poured herself a coffee and joined her friend and temporary lodger and the weekend papers at the breakfast bar.

‘There’s some post for you over there.’ Lizzie nodded towards a pile of garish envelopes.

‘Great. More junk mail, I suppose.’

‘I think so, but there’s also an interesting one.’

‘An apology from Rupes, saying what a terrible mistake he’s made?’ Sophie brightened.

‘Err…no…looks more like a wedding invitation, actually.’

Not what Sophie wanted to hear.

‘Wonderful,’ she mumbled.

Another request to celebrate friends’ nuptials. Another dreary Saturday spent watching a happy couple grin beatifically at an over paid photographer, amidst a sea of straw hats that wouldn’t look out of place on the donkeys at Blackpool beach. Sophie was currently undergoing the humiliation of attending a series of second weddings, having yet to attend a first one of her own, and had noticed a peculiar phenomenon. These days the guests did not spend months and money choosing and buying new outfits. They simply recycled the old ones, leading to an absence of avant-garde millinery. In light of the rising divorce rates, she assumed they didn’t want to bankrupt themselves buying a new ensemble for every event. She couldn’t blame them.

Another trend was also emerging. As if it wasn’t depressing enough, giving up a precious weekend to trail to yet another remote country house hotel and watch yet another friend trot up the aisle (same guests as the first time; different spouse), she didn’t even get invited plus one these days. Her friends had long since given up any pretence of inviting her with a significant other. After all, she hadn’t had another, significant or otherwise, lasting longer than a few months for at least ten years. Her mother had given up hope of grandchildren.

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