Anthony woke up. His eyes seemed to take a while longer to do the same. As the world phased into view, an unimaginable headache took over all his sensations and faculties. At this point, Anthony regretted those last few glasses of red. He must’ve gone through almost three bottles with….with….what was her name again?
Once Anthony’s eyes adjusted to the morning light, the headache subsided. On his left – or rather, on his numbed left arm – lay a blonde woman, or at least I think it’s a woman, with her back to him. She was as naked as the day she was born. On his right, an empty wine glass lay on its side, threatening to roll off the bed and smash onto the floorboards. Anthony contemplated yawning and noticed an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.
He looked around the room and regarded the various items of clothing hastily strewn across the floor.
Rachael! That’s the name! The young woman lying next to him was his model, Rachael. She had clearly stayed for drinks after Anthony’s drawing session. It appeared that they both got more than they bargained for.
With the skill of a circus contortionist, Anthony managed to release his arm from underneath the model, fortunately before the pins & needles kicked in. He swung around and sat on the edge of the bed. Fuck, too fast. No sudden movements, Ant. He took a moment to compose himself before rising, completely naked, and padding downstairs and into the kitchen. I feel like a fucking frenchman.
Once in the kitchen, Antoine de Montbazillac put the kettle on and stopped himself from pouring coffee beans into the grinder; ah, imbecîle! The noise will kill me! He decided that tea would be the better option. The kettle boiled. Anthony threw three teabags into the pot and poured the water in after them. Oh, rien de rien… Non, je ne regrette rien…
Whilst the tea brewed, Anthony tried to piece together the occurrences of the night before. He could remember setting down his charcoal and washing the residue off his hands as Rachael was putting her clothes back on. Anthony became distracted by the view of his garden. There was a certain corner of his garden that seemed to fluoresce in the morning light. It always left him feeling disappointed that he never tended to his garden, he regretted choosing to solely plant fuchsias. I should probably try painting this spot before the fuchsias die. Anthony was very pleased with his house. An inheritance from a very rich relative allowed him to buy this wonderful detached house in St Albans, complete with large garden, fencing and electronic gate with intercom. The housing market was in somewhat of a large dip when he bought it, I really got lucky with this one.
Roughly enough time had passed, he made thé avec lait for the maidemoiselle in his bed and himself, and carried it upstairs on a tray with a bowl of sugar, just in case.
He entered the room, still starkers,
“Bonjour, mademoiselle, j’espère que t’as dormi bien. Alors, j’ai preparé du thé; tu te veux lever maintenant?”
There was no response,
“Rachael? I made tea.”
Still no response. Anthony set the tray down on the bedside table and resorted to prodding her gently in the ribs. When that turned out to be fruitless, he gave her an almighty spank on the jacksie. In life, there are strange occurrences that take place very frequently. At first, they do not cause alarm. When Anthony’s hand collided with Rachael’s voluptuous buttock, there was still no sound or movement from the model. At this point, Anthony started to worry. In a panic, he grabbed her shoulders and rolled her over.
Her jaw was definitely broken as it hanged lopsided from her usually beautiful face. Her face, though, was not a picture he recognised; it was patterned with blue, purple and yellow bruises and small traces of blood. Her eyes had been blackened, her cheeks pummelled and her nose broken.
Fuck, not again.