The millionth time Sunny tells herself she really needs to get out of Delilah's bed, she listens at last because her bladder has joined the argument and it seems to be shouting the loudest. As excruciating as the pain behind her temples is, she can't pee in her best friend's bed so with her eyes squinted against the bright light of a dingy morning, she feels her way across the flat to the too-white bathroom, the tiles cleaned so thoroughly that they sparkle and her head throbs harder. Once she's found the loo, she rests her head against the cold wall and closes her eyes, focusing on breathing deep and slow so she doesn't throw up.

Going back to the bedroom is too far so once she has washed her hands and avoided her reflection in the mirror, staring instead at Delilah's vast array of hair products and detangling combs, Sunny collapses on the sofa in half of last night's outfit. Her bra, somehow, has vanished but her top is in place; her shorts are gone but she's still wearing the soft boxers that hug her hips and thighs.

The cracked leather is cool against her clammy body, too hot after a night in Delilah's luxurious bed. The bed itself wasn't hot, but Sunny seems to have churned every unit of alcohol into a unit of pure heat, so she is now sticky and pink and trying not to vomit. For ten whole minutes, she lies prone on the sofa, convincing herself that she isn't going to be sick until reality kicks in, and she has to acquiesce with the reassurance that she'll probably feel a lot better once she has given in to the tell-tale trickle of hot saliva filling her mouth.

She gets to the loo just in time to heave up her guts until her back is screaming in agony and her lungs are on fire, and when she slumps against the wonderfully cool tiles, she thinks this would make a pretty good place to sleep. It's cold and clean and if she needs to throw up again, the loo is right there. So she gives in to her body's cries and she curls up on the floor, her cheek pressed against a tile that, knowing Delilah, has been polished at some point in the last couple of days.

It could've been minutes or days by the time she hears the front door open and close and Delilah wafts into the flat carrying the smell of fresh croissants and hot coffee from the bakery at the bottom of the hill. When Sunny opens her eyes, she realises she doesn't feel as queasy as before and that maybe a buttery croissant is just what the doctor ordered. With great caution, she gets to her feet, moving as slowly as possible so as not to shock her headache out of its temporary hibernation, and slinks out of the bathroom like a guilty cat.

"Morning!" Delilah is far too alert, too alive, too put together. Shimmering highlighter makes her brown cheeks sparkle, her lips painted espresso brown to match her eyes. She gestures to the kitchen table with a sweep of her hand. "A latte with extra cinnamon; croissants and pain au chocolat; paracetamol for now and ibuprofen for once you've eaten, and water." A proud smile lights up her face, the glittery highlighter catching the sun. "I figured you'd need it."

"You're a goddess. I do not deserve you. This mortal world hasn't earnt you, Delilah," Sunny says with a groan as she drops onto a chair and pulls over a plate with a croissant that Delilah has already split open and slathered in proper salty butter from a farm down the road. It's further than the shop and more expensive, but there's nothing quite like proper butter and fresh milk.

"How's your head?"

"I threw up so hard my headache has a headache of its own." She eats with her eyes closed, tearing the croissant into bite-sized pieces.

"Uh oh. Do I need to get my mop out or were you tidy?" Delilah sips her mocha and cuts the end off a pain au chocolat.

"I was a good tidy girl." She has to stop eating for a moment to breathe. "I have never in my life drunk so much, oh my fuck. What was I thinking?"

"I'm not sure, but your head's in a funny place at the moment. It's understandable."

"Ugh, and I have fucking work today." Another groan, this one more existential. "Thank fuck I haven't changed jobs in the last year because I do not know how the fuck to do anything but make coffee, and I can barely do that."

Delilah grins and ruffles Sunny's sleep-scruffy hair. "Don't worry, you're still making coffee. If they let you back, that is. You've missed, like, three shifts."

Sunny holds up a finger. "Because of a tummy bug. This is an entirely excused absence, and far more believable than me rocking up to Mack and telling him exactly why I've missed the last few shifts."

"At this rate, it's entirely believable that you've had a bug," Delilah teases. "You look terrible. Want me to run you a bath?"

"I really, really don't deserve you."

She kisses Sunny's forehead and runs a bath with lavender oil and salts, and she digs out the smallest clothes in her cupboard, laying them out on the radiator so they'll be toasty warm when Sunny gets out. The clothes don't belong to Delilah – she has always been fat, outgrowing the restrictive children's section by the time she was eight – but Sunny has stayed over enough that she has left whole outfits in the pieces she forgets, and Delilah is able to fish out a pair of violently purple leggings and a grey University of Birmingham hoodie. None of them went to the University of Birmingham and Sunny isn't even sure where the hoodie came from, but it's one of her favourites with its fleecy lining and the deep front pocket that could easily fit a couple of paperbacks.

After Sunny's been in the bath for an hour, Delilah knocks on the door.

"Don't forget you've got work at five."

"Shit. What time is it?"

"Just gone one. You've got plenty of time but I wanted to warn you."

As much as Sunny wants to top up the hot water and sink under the surface, she knows she needs to face the music. By two o'clock she's back in her flat, yawning her head off as she pours herself a coffee and presses play on whatever's in the CD player. Something she doesn't recognise but it has a good beat and it's kind of catchy, something to tap her foot to as she pounds back two coffees in quick succession without bothering to make it taste good because there's no cinnamon in the flat and the only milk in the fridge is an inch of red top. That must be Fen's. Sunny would never buy skimmed milk.

A ten-minute nap, that's all she needs. At least, that's what she tells herself as she makes herself a little nook amidst the cushions on the sofa and drifts off to Fenfen's early nineties rap. But it's forty-five minutes later that she's awoken by the shrill ring of the telephone and she has to drag herself to the kitchen. She drops the phone twice when she answers it. It swings on its springy cord and clatters against the wall, and she apologises to it and the caller as she tries to get it under control.

"Hello?" She runs a hand through her hair and grimaces at her reflection in the bulbous TV screen. She looks rough. Like she hasn't slept in a week. How she's going to make it through a whole shift, she's got no idea.

"Sunny? It's only me," Ravi says. She leans against the wall, getting tangled in the cord as she sinks to the floor

"Hey, Ravi."

He sounds amused as he says, "I wanted to check in after last night and make sure you're alive. Which I guess you are! Congrats!"

"Ha. Ha." Her voice is dry as a bone. "There's a marching band in my head but other than that, I'm fine.". She wraps the curly cord around her finger until it starts to throb and she has to hurry to unravel it before she loses the tip. "I take it you guys got home all right?"

"We're in one piece, though I think Fraser pulled about eighteen muscles trying to tear up the dancefloor. He can't get out of bed. I'm waiting on him hand and foot. Literally. I just finished a twenty-minute foot massage. That's a long fucking time to be squeezing someone else's feet."

"Sounds like your ideal Tuesday." A quick glance at the clock confirms that she still has a good ninety minutes before work, plenty of time to talk.

Ravi lets out a dirty laugh. "Well, I'm glad you're okay. I only popped back for my lunch break to check on Fraser and check in on you, so I'm happy to hear you're both in working order."

"Wait, your lunch break? You got a job?"

"Yeah! Shit, sorry, Sunny. I keep forgetting how much you can't remember."

She can't help but wonder if it's a case of forgetting, or never knowing in the first place – whatever the answer is, it'd confirm whether or not she's the same Sunny.

"Yeah, I got a job at the CD place on the seafront, nothing much," Ravi continues. "But hey, it pays the bills and I get to be surrounded by music a day so who am I to complain?"

They chat until Ravi has to leave and after a few minutes of mooching around the flat, Sunny changes into her uniform – anything black, as per Mack's request, and no tits please – and heads out.

*

It's the first time Sunny has ventured into the centre of town since she woke up in a new year. New century. New fucking millennium. The closest she's been so far is Astrid and Celeste's house, a five minute walk from the main body of Black Sands, though it feels further. The heart of the town is concentrated in a few streets that lead down to the beach and the pier, the sea salt wind breaking down everything in its path: the impressive Gothic Revival clock tower was magnificent when it was built in the 1860s, modelled after Big Ben (and fondly nicknamed Little Bill by locals), but over a century on the shore has wreaked havoc. The spire is falling victim to corrosion from the sand in the air, the clock hands and weathervane rusting under the brutal salt spray.

Sunny still has an hour before her shift starts so she rides the bus all the way to the stop by the pier, where the wind whips her hair into a frenzy and the high tide waves crash against the groynes, spray soaking the promenade. Gone is the heat of the last few days. This is more like the good old British weather she knows, when the season is indistinguishable and the rain starts to pour and everyone is buttoned up in macs as they battle with umbrellas determined to flip inside out. Sunny doesn't have a brolly. She isn't wearing a raincoat either. She didn't think to consider the weather when she left the flat, so she is unprotected from the elements in her t-shirt and jeans, her arms exposed, her hair plastering itself to her scalp. Mack's going to tut at her when she gets to work; he'll throw an apron at her and call her a silly wet dog; he'll tell her to go and dry off and stay late to compensate and she doesn't want to, so she needs to get dry fast.

There's a bookstore next to Percolatte. It's been a while since she last indulged in a book buying spree and yes, she has a ton of books she has yet to read, tipping over in precarious piles because her room doesn't have a proper bookshelf, but she reckons she's earnt a treat. Bypassing Ottakar's – she loves it and she always finds something on their deal table but it's a chain, and she prefers to shop independent – Sunny ducks her head as she powerwalks the mile to The Book Nook, squeezing the rain out of her hair as she steps into the welcome heat and inhales that unmatchable smell of a place filled with books.

"Sunny! Hey, you're soaked!"

She looks up at her name, at that slight west country twang, and she can feel the bafflement on her face when she looks up and her eyes land on Viv. Viv in a pastel pink t-shirt embroidered with The Book Nook across her chest, beneath a hand-stitched bookshelf. The bookshelf only has a few books on it so far, with space for a few more. Sunny glances at another bookseller, who has a different coloured t-shirt, different books on her chest.

"Hey. You work here?" She tries not to sound confused but there's been such an overload of information recently and she can't recall if this is one of the snippets Viv shared.

Viv crosses the floor and nudges Sunny into the empty self-help aisle so their conversation isn't overheard by her colleagues. It might be a bit hard to explain. "This is where we met," she says, filling Sunny in. "I got the job here in February last year and you came in on my fifth or sixth shift. I sold you a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower; you read it in one sitting so you'd have an excuse to come back the next day."

That explains the creased copy of the book she found in her room. No wonder it's so worn, the spine cracked, pages dog-eared and marked. She's probably read it over and over, thinking about the woman who sold it to her. Now that she knows where it's come from, she's glad she gets to read it for the first time again; she will get a glimpse of how she felt the very day she met Viv.

"Sounds like I was totally whipped," she says with a chuckle. Viv grins.

"Yeah, you were." Her fingertips graze Sunny's forearm, sending an electrified shiver through her entire body. "You came in the next day and I wasn't working so you asked Candace what I was reading at the moment and you bought that too so you could read it before my next shift."

"Oh my god." Sunny covers her face. "I must've had one hell of a crush."

Viv's grinning. She has a dimple so deep Sunny wants to see if she can push the tip of her finger into it. "You did. It was adorable." Her smile only grows as she remembers their second meeting, still so fresh in her mind, like virtually no time has passed. "You came in the next day gushing about this book I'd never read and I was so confused. It turns out Candace is a compulsive liar. She sold you the book of the week, 'cause we get credit towards a free book for each one we sell."

"That's so embarrassing. I can't believe I was so cringey."

"Oh, Sunny. Don't kid yourself, bambi." Viv's eyes are shining. "The more I got to know you, the more I found out that is exactly how you are. Such an eager beaver." She's standing so close now, Sunny can feel the heat radiating off her body, drying her out. She unconsciously leans closer, drawn into Viv's magnetic atmosphere, and she catches a waft of that rich, intoxicating perfume. The scent has depth, like she could fall into it. Heady cedar, aromatic patchouli, warm vanilla.

"There goes my conviction that I'd be a cool cucumber if I ever met a girl I liked," Sunny mutters.

"I'm glad you weren't a cool cucumber," Viv says. She goes solemn. "I hate cucumbers."

Sunny giggles and oh god, she sounds like a fucking child. "Cucumbers are overrated."

"Plus," Viv says, "if you hadn't been so eager, I would've been a lot more torn up about whether you were gay or not. But you took out all the questioning for me. Candace reckoned you were looking for friends but I thought, no, that's a lesbian if I ever saw one."

"I was that obvious, huh?"

"The Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and jelly shoes helped. Your whole vibe was like, I will spontaneously combust if you dare to perceive me as straight."

Pride glows in Sunny's chest. That's exactly the vibe she's been after her whole life, though she has never put that much thought into her clothes: she just wears what's comfortable. Her jelly shoes are a novelty and her Ziggy Stardust t-shirt is so soft – and, apparently, super fucking gay.

"Viv! Can you get the till?" comes a voice from across the shop.

"On it!" Viv rolls her eyes and says, "Duty calls. You're working today, right?"

"Yup."

"One o'clock finish?"

"As far as I'm aware."

"Want me to bring food at nine?" she asks, and then backpedals to explain herself before Candance yells for her again. "Shit, sorry, I keep forgetting the whole..." She trails off, moving her hand in a vague wave. "We both have Wednesdays off so I usually bring food for your supper break on Tuesday and stay until the end of your shift and we go back to mine."

Sunny wonders how many little routines they have. Things they've grown used to that they're going to have to relearn. Things Viv'll have to teach her.

"Sure. That sounds nice."

"We don't have to," Viv says. "I don't want to overwh—"

"Viv!" Candace calls. "Customers waiting!"

"I'll see you at nine," Sunny says. She reaches out and squeezes Viv's hand like it's muscle memory, surprising herself with the tender instinct. Viv smiles and ducks out of the aisle, hurrying over to the couple of customers in the queue with a flurry of apologies.

It's five o'clock before she knows it, her hair and clothes only semi dry when she heads next door to Percolatte with a minute to go before her shift starts. This, at least, she knows – she worked here for years before the black hole – and any residual stress leaks out of her body as she pulls on an apron and scoops half of her hair into a stubby little topknot because it's too short for a ponytail.

"Feeling better, Shelley?" Mack asks as he comes out of the back with a crate of crockery fresh from the dishwasher. The owner and manager of Percolatte is a short, middle-aged white guy with a beer belly and a beard with patches of orange and chocolate brown despite his mousy grey-streaked hair.

"Much, thanks. Sorry."

He shrugs. "Not much you can do about a bug," he says. "Good to have you back. As long as you're not infectious." Eyeing her closely – Sunny's sure he can see the pallor of her skin, the hint of redness around her tired eyes; he can probably smell the remains of her hangover – he asks, "It has been at least twenty-four hours since any ... you know, right?"

"Yes, it has." She lies with confidence. Sure, she you know'd this morning, but that had absolutely nothing to do with a virus and absolutely everything to do with whatever alcohol goes into a pink pussy cocktail.

"Good. Can't have my assistant manager passing on a virus to the whole team." He laughs as he unloads the clean dishes, and it's a good thing he's not facing Sunny else he'd catch her choke on what he just said. Assistant manager? What in the ever-loving fuck? Yeah, she's been here a while and she and Mack have always had a good rapport, but seriously? What does that even involve? A cold sweat takes over and when Mack turns around, he peers at her. "Be honest, Shelley. You sure you feel good? You're looking a little ... iffy."

"I'm fine, honestly," she says, though her voice cracks on the words as she searches for an excuse. "I got absolutely soaked on the way here, forgot my coat."

"Well, head back and warm up, you silly soggy goose."

She focuses on tying her apron, though her fingers keep fumbling and her throat's dry and all of a sudden she's not sure she knows how to do her job because what even is her job? There's only one thing to do. Mack's right there. He knows. He can tell her.

But ... she doesn't want to freak him out by asking what exactly her responsibilities are as assistant manager.

So she heads into the closet of a staffroom in the back to hang her bag and – thank fuck! – there's Dexter, resident stoner. Mack doesn't care because he still does his job well and Dex is a chill guy to be around. Probably the best one to ask weird questions because he often has his own. Sunny can't count the number of times he'll turn to her as he makes a drink to ask something like who decided that the alphabet was in alphabetical order. Once he freaked her out for an entire shift when he pointed out that humans aren't much more than sacks of meat and bone being driven by a squishy little brain.

"Hey, Dex?"

"Sunny! What's up?" He runs a hand through his frosted tips.

"I've got a weird question for you."

He holds out his arms and wiggles his fingers and says, "Hit me."

"What's the difference between what I do and what you do?"

"Whaddaya mean? There's a lot of differences between us, hot stuff."

She ignores that. Dex calls everybody hot stuff, Mack included. "What we do here, I mean," she says. "I'm an assistant manager now – what's the difference between that and a barista?"

Dexter laughs. "I think that mostly means Mack likes you more," he says. "I've worked with you two years, Sunny, and aside from getting paid more, you haven't done anything different since he promoted you." Then he frowns, hand on his chin. "But maybe he promoted you 'cause you were already doing what an assistant manager does? You are pretty good at your job. I always said you were worth more than four quid an hour."

"Any chance I told you what I make now?" She winces as she asks. Most people are tetchy about money stuff, but Dexter doesn't seem to care.

"Uh, six fifty I think?"

Sunny splutters. "An hour?"

"No, a week," he deadpans, but his laugh breaks through in seconds. "Yes, you dipshit. When Mack did his New Year raises and promotions, Gina was so excited about a 50p pay rise and then she found out you went up to six fifty with the new title and she was so fucking jealous."

"Holy shit." She has to sit down. A two pound fifty pay rise. Her brain scrambles with the mental calculations and she gawps when she figures that's nearly twenty quid more per shift she works. An extra hundred a week.

"Are you trying to rub it in or did you literally forget?" Dexter asks, but he doesn't expect an answer, or even wait for one. "I've gotta bounce. Mum's got my kid and I promised I'd be there by six."

"You've got a kid?" She blurts out the question without meaning to. Dexter just laughs and flicks her head.

"You been hitting the good stuff? Ruby's six months old! My baby girl's a whole half a year, and I gotta go get her from her grandma because if there's one thing my mother hates, it's babysitting time eating into her early dinner in front of the telly time. Seeya!"

Once he's gone, Sunny files away everything he's said and she snaps into action. An eight-hour shift ahead of her doesn't seem like such a drag now that she's making the big bucks. She might even start to take Mack up on the overtime he occasionally offers up.

*

the hardest part of writing a book set more than 20 years ago when i'm a detail-oriented person is figuring out era-accurate wages!