Rosie felt like she’d been punched in the head repeatedly. Stephen was lying behind her, his eyes tight shut, making a thick, groaning noise. ‘Oh God …’ ‘Jesus,’ said Rosie. She’d kept a close eye on her consumption and was sure she’d only had a few glasses of champagne … well, and some cider, she supposed. And a bit of beer to wash down the fish and chips. And obviously more champagne for all the toasts … ‘Oh crap,’ she said, as Apostil became more demanding. ‘I did that thing where I was drunkenly utterly convinced I was sober.’ ‘Rrrrrrr,’ said Stephen, still refusing to open his eyes. His dark stubble stood out on his pale chin. With great difficulty Rosie managed to roll herself over to the side of the bed. ‘Oh GOD,’ she said. ‘Oh God, what did I say to Joy?’ Stephen put a pillow over his head. ‘She caught you driving a baby whilst drunk,’ he muttered. Rosie put her head in her hands. ‘Oh God oh God oh God. It’s all right, baby boy, I’m coming.’ She rolled off the bed and resisted the temptation to crawl down the stairs.
