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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 turned sour the moment Caterina opened her eyes in the morning. That action was followed by an agonised groan at the infernal sun hitting her face.
She could hardly tell if the dull ache in her head came from that fifth bottle of whiskey they opened the night prior or the fact she would have to attend Cheltenham - one of her favourite races of the season — with Billy Kimber.
The things I do for this family, she grumbled begrudgingly as she flung her legs over the side of the bed, careful not to topple down. One step at a time, she shuffled into the bathroom, each feeling like a hammer against the anvil of her skull. And papà still won't make me a shareholder.
Between vigorous brushing of her black tresses and contemplating whether to drown herself in the bathtub and end her misery then and there, she tried to remember how she got home in one piece last night.
An awful lot of toasts for anything that came to their mind. Someone must have played the old piano by the bar because she remembered Arthur swinging her wildly around the pub and laughing until her lungs ached. Even Thomas smiled, albeit faintly, leaning on the bar and watching them dance.
It was a small gathering at The Garrison, as a celebration of Arthur taking over the pub - Tommy's way of trying to cheer his brother up after another episode of Flanders Blues.
Lately, it seemed to her the Shelby's had a particular way of dealing with problems, either drowning them in alcohol or shooting them up.
Still, she felt uneasy after a quarrel with Polly earlier that day. Caterina had the honour of breaking news of Ada's marriage to her aunt, sheepishly admitting that she was the one to help them in the process. It would be an understatement to say Polly was furious, and it was most likely that by the end of their discussion the entire Watery Lane knew of the Shelby daughter's elopement with their friendly neighbourhood communist agitator.
At the very least she was thankful she was not the one that had to break the news to Tommy.
White and beige powder covered the bags under her eyes, the soft round puff gently dabbing her face, particles of it flying around like dust. Several little tins of lipstick laid open in the sink, an opened bottle of mascara lying on the side, forgotten and trickling into the basin. It was a mess, a complete and utter mess that resembled the inside of her mind that morning.
A pinch of morphine in her morning tea would have to do its magic, and by the time she departed, the hellish hungover would be blown away.
