Sentence The Onehundredandseventyfirst
When she woke this morning, from a troubled sleep, Venetia Vixen did not know where she was: the room was strange in the equinoctial half-light seeping through the pale curtains – the duvet was heavy on her aching body, the pillows sodden from the sweat of her fever; she reached for and found the bottle of water she had left on the bedside cabinet; she gulped, and remembered too late that she had filled it with gin, she began to cough, those hacking, racking coughs that she had had since she resumed smoking in the hours of anxious distress following her realisation that something was seriously wrong about Tammy's disappearance; and she then recalled the events of the previous day, her fortuitous encounter with Daphne and Maude – two women she barely knew, but who had held her safe when her near-hysteria weighed her down, paralysed her in her desperation that had no direction or purpose; she remembered having dinner with them in this hotel, getting drunk on just a little alcohol – it was years since she had taken any, since she had Signed The Pledge and renounced the 'Devil's Brew', and now she felt sick in body and mind, appalled with herself for so easily accepting the first drink offered her, then holding her glass forward for more, even before she had finished the first; and now the hang-over held her in it's sway; and the gin – she had no recollection of buying it, must have got it at the Hotel Bar – she had a vague memory of flirting with the Balebos, or it might just have been the Barman – why did she do these things, when she had no interest in men anyway, was it just a power trip, pick them up and drop them flat, it was cheap, and shoddy, sometimes she despised herself – wait! had she given her own name when she booked in, or another that would not be linked with her – had she been recognised, God, she hoped not – she had a reputation to keep up; she struggled out of bed and found the bathroom – knelt before the toilet and
emptied her stomach, until there was nothing left, yet still she heaved, the acid searing her throat; once it all subsided, she still knelt, arms round the bowl, her forehead against it's cold rim; she reached for the handle and flushed her shame and remorse away – she had to shower, wash her hair, scrub away the smell which had oozed through her pores, before she could face anyone, most of all the two people she now considered two friends, those two women who had taken her into their bosoms and supported her when her legs refused to, who had listened to her incoherent ramblings; and she remembered Tammy and Bernie and she cried aloud for them: “where are you?” she demanded, and the walls threw her words back; there was an idea somewhere, half-formed, hiding in her aching brain, she had to find it, but first she had to eat, and even before that she had to dress – in the same clothes she had worn yesterday, not good! but she had no alternative; and she had to repair her face before she dare let anyone see it – she was not vain, as those who didn't know her might expect her to be, but she was a realist, and now, here in this hotel room – she couldn't remember the name of the hotel, until she saw it on a folder at the side of the dressing table on which her bag lay: The King's Arms, Melrose – she laughed, having never been in a King's arms before and with no desire to be so in her life; and that reminded her, so she scrabbled around, found her phone and called Corky – straight to voice-mail, and her throat still scratchy from retching, she said: “darling, I'm in Melrose, I bumped into two dear friends, you probably know them better than me, Daphne and Maude, I'm looking for Tammy, I've got a feeling she's near here, can you come down? take the train to Tweedbank and catch a bus, or a taxi, it's just a hop and skip to Melrose, you might even see Tabby and Tavish on the train, they're coming down too – we're all FRANTIC!” she began to bubble, so cut it short: “I'll wait her for you – please call back when you here this, Sweetie, I love you,” and cut the connection; now, she thought, time to face the breakfast table – toast and tea for me, I think; nothing involving the snickersnee of sharpened cutlery, there's been enough bloodshed already; and so Venetia Vixen, beloved of her dedicated viewers, completed her make-up and, while acknowledging that she would never put Gemma, her make-up artist, out of work, but accepting that in the circumstances and with her hands still shaking, it was passable – so long as there were no cameras around, she opened the door and took the stairs down into another day! and catching sight of her two, now Bosom, friends, she trilled her holophrasm catchphrase, shamelessly stolen from Francie and Josie, dear old Rikki and Jack, all gone before, for we are but mortal, yet her voice was clear and pure as she put on her public face and cried out: “Hullawrerr!”
When she woke this morning, from a troubled sleep, Venetia Vixen did not know where she was: the room was strange in the equinoctial half-light seeping through the pale curtains – the duvet was heavy on her aching body, the pillows sodden from the sweat of her fever; she reached for and found the bottle of water she had left on the bedside cabinet; she gulped, and remembered too late that she had filled it with gin, she began to cough, those hacking, racking coughs that she had had since she resumed smoking in the hours of anxious distress following her realisation that something was seriously wrong about Tammy's disappearance; and she then recalled the events of the previous day, her fortuitous encounter with Daphne and Maude – two women she barely knew, but who had held her safe when her near-hysteria weighed her down, paralysed her in her desperation that had no direction or purpose; she remembered having dinner with them in this hotel, getting drunk on just a little alcohol – it was years since she had taken any, since she had Signed The Pledge and renounced the 'Devil's Brew', and now she felt sick in body and mind, appalled with herself for so easily accepting the first drink offered her, then holding her glass forward for more, even before she had finished the first; and now the hang-over held her in it's sway; and the gin – she had no recollection of buying it, must have got it at the Hotel Bar – she had a vague memory of flirting with the Balebos, or it might just have been the Barman – why did she do these things, when she had no interest in men anyway, was it just a power trip, pick them up and drop them flat, it was cheap, and shoddy, sometimes she despised herself – wait! had she given her own name when she booked in, or another that would not be linked with her – had she been recognised, God, she hoped not – she had a reputation to keep up; she struggled out of bed and found the bathroom – knelt before the toilet and
emptied her stomach, until there was nothing left, yet still she heaved, the acid searing her throat; once it all subsided, she still knelt, arms round the bowl, her forehead against it's cold rim; she reached for the handle and flushed her shame and remorse away – she had to shower, wash her hair, scrub away the smell which had oozed through her pores, before she could face anyone, most of all the two people she now considered two friends, those two women who had taken her into their bosoms and supported her when her legs refused to, who had listened to her incoherent ramblings; and she remembered Tammy and Bernie and she cried aloud for them: “where are you?” she demanded, and the walls threw her words back; there was an idea somewhere, half-formed, hiding in her aching brain, she had to find it, but first she had to eat, and even before that she had to dress – in the same clothes she had worn yesterday, not good! but she had no alternative; and she had to repair her face before she dare let anyone see it – she was not vain, as those who didn't know her might expect her to be, but she was a realist, and now, here in this hotel room – she couldn't remember the name of the hotel, until she saw it on a folder at the side of the dressing table on which her bag lay: The King's Arms, Melrose – she laughed, having never been in a King's arms before and with no desire to be so in her life; and that reminded her, so she scrabbled around, found her phone and called Corky – straight to voice-mail, and her throat still scratchy from retching, she said: “darling, I'm in Melrose, I bumped into two dear friends, you probably know them better than me, Daphne and Maude, I'm looking for Tammy, I've got a feeling she's near here, can you come down? take the train to Tweedbank and catch a bus, or a taxi, it's just a hop and skip to Melrose, you might even see Tabby and Tavish on the train, they're coming down too – we're all FRANTIC!” she began to bubble, so cut it short: “I'll wait her for you – please call back when you here this, Sweetie, I love you,” and cut the connection; now, she thought, time to face the breakfast table – toast and tea for me, I think; nothing involving the snickersnee of sharpened cutlery, there's been enough bloodshed already; and so Venetia Vixen, beloved of her dedicated viewers, completed her make-up and, while acknowledging that she would never put Gemma, her make-up artist, out of work, but accepting that in the circumstances and with her hands still shaking, it was passable – so long as there were no cameras around, she opened the door and took the stairs down into another day! and catching sight of her two, now Bosom, friends, she trilled her holophrasm catchphrase, shamelessly stolen from Francie and Josie, dear old Rikki and Jack, all gone before, for we are but mortal, yet her voice was clear and pure as she put on her public face and cried out: “Hullawrerr!”
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