I’m not sure if it is the legacy of Lily’s lethal cocktails but I’m struggling to keep up. The printer is spewing out tickets like they’re going out of fashion, and my well-practised regime of collecting several required items and sending them up in groups to the necessary floors in the dumb waiter lift I have in the stockroom, and that I’m meant to use in busy situations like this, is somehow failing me. So far I have sent some talcum powders up to Designers, a handbag to Haberdashery and a couple of corsets down to Menswear. I only realized when Guy flounced in, sporting one of the corsets over his three-piece suit and asking me if I was trying to hint that he’d put on weight. I shake my head and exhale slowly as I fight another wave of nausea. For someone in their twenties I am pathetically unpractised in the art of drinking on an empty stomach or staying out late. I staggered through the front door last night just before midnight. The house was in complete darkness and, after making myself some toast, I was about to tiptoe upstairs and collapse into bed when my phone beeped.
