I’d fallen asleep, light on, still wearing my pantsuit and the polyester wasn’t reacting very well to my body heat. I headed upstairs and made a beeline for the bathroom to beat the morning rush. “Coffee?” I heard Andrew yell from the kitchen and I grunted in the affirmative before ducking into the bathroom for my morning absolutions. For moments at a time it was possible to forget my true predicament and simply glide along with the illusion that life was as it always had been. I could briefly imagine I had perhaps had a glass of wine too many and had crashed on Julie’s spare bed. Sitting at the kitchen table, clad in one of Julie’s old housecoats with my straggly orange hair damp against my cheeks, any illusion of a more innocent time was forgotten. “You made the front page again,” said Andrew. “The Globe,” this time. The Globe and Mail. Damn it. Unlike The Sun, people I knew actually read the Globe.
