When there seemed to be a pause, John gently gripped Maggie’s arm, helped her up, and led her to the adjacent alley. “If you’re going to be sick, at least do it here,” he murmured, one arm around her shoulders, fingers gripping the bare skin of her arm, the other hand holding back her hair. Hugh followed behind.
Maggie vomited again. And again. When there was absolutely nothing left to expel, she slid down against the brick wall.
“Here,” John said, taking out his handkerchief and handing it to her.
“Thanks,” Maggie muttered, wiping her lips and chin, exhausted. Too exhausted to feel shame, but not too exhausted to realize that shame would eventually come. She noticed Hugh was still there. And both of my former beaux witnessed this display? Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Maggie groaned, then looked up at John. His face was impassive, dark eyes staring down. Hugh was pacing. She let her hot, throbbing head fall to her hands. “I’m sorry,” she moaned.
“I’ll take it from here,” John told Hugh.
“No, I’ll take care of her,” Hugh countered.
“I said I would do it.”
“Who the hell are you?” Hugh demanded.
John’s nostrils flared. “John Sterling.”
Hugh’s jaw dropped. “The …” He gathered his wits. “You’re the one we thought—you were dead.”
John gave a grim smile. “Reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated.”
“And you two are back together now?”
“No!” Maggie managed from the pavement. “No. We are not together.”
“Well, then I’ll get her home,” Hugh said.
“No.” John’s teeth clenched. “As I said, I’ll take it from here.”
“Please, please, both of you—just leave me alone …”
“Watch her, while I get her things,” John told Hugh.
Maggie wasn’t conscious of much, but she was coherent enough to be glad her growing headache eclipsed her humiliation. “So, that’s John,” Hugh said, finally.
“Yes,” Maggie managed.
“I see.”
Finally, John returned with her hat and gloves and a glass of water. “Drink this,” he admonished. Maggie shook her head. She much preferred to be in pain. Being in pain meant she didn’t have to think. “Come on now,” John demanded.
Maggie took the glass, but it slipped from her hand, spilling water into her lap. She heard voices, as though from far away. “So is this what you do now? Get drunk and make a spectacle of yourself? Is this what you and Hugh did together, while I nearly died in Berlin?”
Maggie moaned, “No …”
“Watch it,” Hugh countered. “It’s only since you’ve broken her heart that she’s been like this.”
“I?” John spat. “I broke her heart?”
“Yes, and now she’s broken mine. Are you happy now?”
“Happy? Who the hell is happy these days?”
John grabbed Hugh by his tie and punched him in the face. Hugh staggered back against the wall, then regained his footing. Suddenly the two men were grappling with each other in the alley, like boxers in a clinch.
“Boys!” Maggie tried to rise. “Really now. This is getting ridicu——”
It felt warm in the alley, so very warm, and the yelling and punches were very loud. Her head hurt. She felt her stomach lurch again, and the alley started to tilt. She knew she was about to faint, and sure enough, she was back on the ground, this time with her cheek pressed to the pavement.
Before blackness closed over her, she heard John—or was it Hugh?—say, “Bloody hell!”
Chapter Twenty-six
Maggie opened her eyes. This time it was dark. And hot, and stuffy. But at least she was clean, in her nightgown, and in her own bed.
The blackout curtains were in place, but her door was open, and she could see the light infiltrating the rest of the flat. She had no idea how much time had passed.
Her head hurt. Her body hurt. Her soul hurt. She tried to sit up, groaned, and sank back down again. A voice said, “Drink this.” She squinted and focused enough to see David perched on the striped armchair, holding out a glass of water for her to drink. Obedient and weak, she took the water, drinking it all down.
“Good girl,” David said.
She handed the glass back to him, exhausted by the effort. He had a pot with a cozy over it, next to a mug. He took off the cozy and poured, then handed the steaming, fragrant tea to her.
Maggie swore never to mock the British penchant for tea again. “Thank you, David,” she croaked. Her voice sounded like she hadn’t used it in years.