March 18th 2016

"I have a serious question for you."

"Um, ok?"

"How have the Irish managed to survive?"

"I, uh... what?"

"How have you not died out from alcoholism or alcohol poisoning, or liver cirrhosis, or something along those lines?"

"Oh, right, I see. Um, no idea because you'd think, from the amount of booze consumed yesterday, we'd all be dead."

"Which is why it's really rather surprising that you're still alive. I'm glad that you are, don't get me wrong, I'm just a little shocked that you are."

"That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me!"

"I see your sarcasm remains intact, anyway."

"Always. My sarcasm is like a cockroach. It could survive an apocalypse."

"I think St. Patrick's Day was my apocalypse. What possessed me to do half of what I did last night?"

"Irish liqueur. That stuff is lethal and you don't know it until it suddenly hits you and you're on the floor. Or bent over the toilet, spewing up your internal organs."

"Graphic descriptive."

"I've seen it happen enough times."

"You know, since meeting you, I've been drunk more times in three months than I have in thirty years."

"Nice to see that you're pushing the blame on to me. Was I the one who forced you to drink an entire bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream?"

"I vaguely remember playing shot chess with your father."

"That happened, yeah."

"Did I win?"

"My dad put up a good fight, but ultimately you won."

"I think we were playing it wrong, though."

"You were."

"No wonder I was getting drunk. I was drinking the shots your father should have been drinking! Why didn't he tell me?"

"Ever wonder where I get my sadistic side from?"

"Not after last night, no."

"Exactly. How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Like I need a new liver."

"I told you to take it easy, Daniel."

"I thought I knew better."

"Haha, regretting it this morning, huh?"

"Hey, who was that bloke I was talking to for most of the night? The guy that was with your dad when we were playing chess?"

"Oh, that was my uncle. Why, what did he do to you?"

"He didn't do anything-"

"Thank God! He has a habit of being... unpredictable on St. Patrick's Day."

"Well, I mean, he could have been trying to egg me on to do something but I couldn't understand a word of what he was saying! His accent, mixed with the fact that he tended to mumble, it was hard to grasp what he was going on about."

"It doesn't help that he talks a mile a minute, either."

"I think I sold him my soul and I didn't realise what he was asking."

"You have a soul to sell?!"

"Well, not any more!"

"Are you in work today?"

"In body, yes. In mind? I'm not even sure if I'm on this planet."

"Oh, come off it. You can't be feeling that bad."

"I can. And worse. How are you functioning?"

"I can handle my liqueur, to begin with. But, I actually didn't drink that much so I was sober- almost- going home."

"I don't even remember getting home."

"I took you home."

"You've seen my place?"

"I've seen the outside of it. You refused to let me inside."

"I'm sorry, that was incredibly rude."

"It was kinda funny. So I dropped you off and then went home."

"What time was that?"

"Just shy of midnight, I think."

"What must your parents think of me?!"

"Dad thinks your hilarious. Mum adores you. Lucas was impressed that you could put me in my place. I think there was a moment when you and my brother negotiated my arranged marriage."

"To who?"

"To you?"

"Oh, no."

"I'm not worth much. Lucas was willing to sell me for a bottle of rare Irish Mist. You were willing to buy me for a six pack of Corona."

"Sophie, I'm-"

"Lucas agreed to the deal. I went from being worth the equivalent of a three hundred pound bottle of alcohol, to not even being worth ten pound of beer!"

"I want to laugh, but that seems incredibly inappropriate."

"Really? That didn't stop you and Lucas from acting like naughty schoolboys and sniggering behind your hands whenever I came near while you were bargaining."

"Um... in my defence, I was intoxicated. What was Lucas' excuse?"

"True."

"How does your day look? Evelyn is keeping me under lock and key in my office where I have to do paperwork for the rest of the day. I'm not sure if she's doing it to save my arse, or to punish me."

"I hope she's punishing you. I'm pouring over e-mails and trying to jig around my article whilst simultaneously telling those idiots over at Tatler that they don't have a story to follow up with regards to my friendship with you."

"Huh?"

"I told you this last night, Daniel."

"Refresh my memory."

"Tatler are basically blackmailing me into handing over my article about you. If I give them the interview, they won't print this stupid article they've written, wherein they're trying to make out like you and I are dating. I'm a couple of hours out from asking my father's lawyer to step in."

"They've written an article about us?"

"Yep. They even sent me a copy of it in the hopes that I'd hand over my interview with you sooner. It's not working."

"And all this because of my 'no comment' comment?"

"No, not at all. It's all because Elizabeth Shale hates me."

"What did you do to upset her?"

"I 'stole' her job at Vogue. Only, I didn't steal it."

"What does the article say?"

"Salacious gossip. Apparently, I'm a home-wrecker that split you and the 'lovely and utterly heartbroken' Arabella up. While Arabella is 'struggling to get over the split,' you have 'found comfort in the arms of the harlot that caused the bitter break up.'"

"People still use the word 'harlot' these days?"

"When they want to be dramatic and create trouble where there isn't trouble, then yes, people still use it these days."

"Hey, Soph? Don't give in. There's no way that bitch is getting my interview."

"Now you're speaking my language."

"Solidarity, Danphie."

"Haha, solidarity."

"Oh, crap! I'm going to be sick again!"

"Ew, gross. I'm going to leave you to spew up the rest of your guts, then."

"Mm hm... ok."

"Ok. Feel better soon, Duck."

"Never celebrating St. Patrick's Day again!"

"Until next year."

"Never, Sophie. Ever."

"Sure thing."

"I'm going now. Love you, bye."

"Love you, bye."