As I expected. All the way home, Sharon didn't speak to me. I got several angry looks out of her, was all.
She almost closed the elevator door on me as I limped behind her.
And now she's poured herself a giant glass of Tanqueray with a splash of tonic for appearances and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door on me as I ask: "Where is Sam?"
I stare for a minute, then sink onto the couch, wincing at the pain.
I ponder what to do.
My mind is obliterated by this white hot pain.
I have to focus but the paracetemol is in the bathroom and at present that would be sixty painful hops round trip.
Gin it is.
I drink straight from the bottle like I did in college and almost spray it everywhere, calming the burn with the tonic which of course goes up my nose.
Where the hell is Sam?
I'm in no condition to find him, but, thinking of college I know who might be well positioned to.
I pick up the mobile and ring up an old friend from those days who now has a fairly vague job with the government, and soon we are speaking as if we have only parted company a day ago.
"Sydney? I've hurt myself, so I can't get about, but I really need your help, old friend," I say, which, as was always the case, is all I ever need to ask.
My mobile is charged.
Sydney, please find him.