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red-rimmed, his chin was covered in a
couple of days’ worth of stubble and his long blond hair was lank and matted. He
was wrestling with his jacket, trying to yank his arms out, but he was all
twisted up. One arm sprang free and caught the doorknob.
    “Ouch,” he said, shaking his hand and sucking it. “Ouch,
ouch, ouch.”
    Momentary relief that he was back was quickly
replaced with the anger and frustration that had been brewing inside me all
afternoon.
    “Shut up,” I hissed. “And shut the door.”
    “But it hurts,” Larsen whined. He closed the door
and leaned against it.
    I remained standing on one leg in front of him,
hanging onto the banister for support. “You’re drunk.”
    Larsen cocked his head to one side. “What are you
implying?”
    “Look at the state you’re in! Where have you been?”
    “Erm. The pub?”
    “The pub,” I repeated, nodding.
    “What have you done to your foot?” Larsen said, suddenly
stabbing the air repeatedly in the direction of my bandaged ankle, as if it was
something I maybe hadn't noticed.
    “What do you care?”
    “Is it all right?” His eyes widened in sympathy.
    “No, it's not all right,” I said. “It's not all
right at all.”
    We stared at each other in silence.
    “We had this little party, you see…” Larsen began.
    “Who’s we?” I said. “I thought you were in
Manchester?”
    “Ah, and now that’s where you’re wrong.” Larsen
wagged his finger. “You’re normally right, Lizzie, about everything in fact. I’ll
give you that. But on this occasion…”
    “Where were you then?” I demanded.
    “The Juggler's to begin with, and then ...” He
lowered his head. “Back at Jude's. C'mon Lizzie, don’t give me a hard time.”
    “Jude? Why were you at her house? What happened to
the gig last night?”
    “Cancelled.” Larsen looked up at me again. “So we
came home, went down the pub. Everyone was there. Doug and Marion, Brian...”
    “And Jude.”
    “Well…yeah..”
    “So what about me? Did you not think to tell me
you were back? Why didn’t you come home?”
    Larsen was sobering up pretty quickly. “I tried to
phone you, I left a message ...” He tailed off. “Didn’t I?”
    I took a deep breath. “Where did you sleep last
night?”
    “At Jude’s, I told you. All of us. It was late…”
    “ Where at Jude’s?”
    “Where did I…?” Larsen paused. “I need a drink.” He
walked into the kitchen. I hopped after him. He pulled a carton of milk out of
the fridge and swigged from it and, at the same time, switched on the kettle,
which started to boil loudly.
    “So?” I asked, over the noise of the kettle.
     “What was the question again?”
    “Where did you sleep? I asked you where you slept.
At Jude’s. On the sofa? On the floor? In her fucking bed?” I screamed at him. The
kettle boiled to a crescendo and switched itself off.
    “No. No, of course not. I slept on the floor.” Larsen
leaned towards me and took my hand. I pulled it away.
    “Are you lying to me?”
    “I swear.” Larsen pulled me towards him again. “Come
on baby. Give me a break. We were all drunk. We just crashed.”
    “God, Larsen, I could have really done with you
being here last night - and today. You’ve been back in Cambridge for twenty-four
hours and you didn’t even think to phone...”
    “Fucking hell, I’ve had
enough of this,” Larsen announced suddenly. “I’m going to bed.” He pushed past
me and headed up the stairs.
    He re-emerged a few hours later. I was sitting in the
living room watching the news.
    “I'm sorry,” he said softly, appearing in the
doorway.
    “Dave phoned. He’s dropping your gear off
tomorrow. I’m sorry the Manchester leg of the tour got cancelled.”
    “Yes, well at least we played Bradford and Leeds. So
that paid for the petrol. Makes sitting in the back of a van for hours with
Dave’s sweaty armpits and a drum kit in your back all worthwhile.” He paused. “D'you
want a cup of tea?”
    I